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UCSB  LIBRARY 


DATURA  STAMONIUM. 
(Thorn, Apple?.) 

Kraut,  ex 


MAGNOLIA: 


Moral  and  Entertaining  Literature, 


EDITED  BY  MRS.  M.  0.  STEVENS. 


BOSTON: JORDAN  &  WILEY. 
LOWELL:  E.  A.  RICE. 

1847. 


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CONTENTS^ 

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VOLUME  I. 


Page. 

Pyrus  Japonica — Truth  in  Fiction,  1 
Forget  me  not,  4 

A  twilight  Reverie,  5 

The  Christian  Soldier,  11 

Lines  written  in  an  Album,  12 

Reminiscences  of  a  Pastor,  12 

Sympathy,  19 

The  Dying  Year — Mezzotinto,  27 
Marriage  in  Lapland,  28 

Editorial,  29 

Flower  of  Consolation,  33 

I  send  you  a  Message  of  Love,  33 
Reminiscences  of  a  Pastor,  cont'd,34 
The  Wife,  38 

Rest  in  Heaven,  39 

Female  Ornaments,  40 

Friendship — Winter,  44 

Ellen  Wharton,  45 

An  Expression  of  Gratitude  for  a 

New  Year's 'present,  52 

The  Rose  for  me,  52 

The  Invalid,  53 

Visit  to  Louishurg,  Cape  Breton,  58 
Sketches  of  Lowell,  60 

My  beloved,  wilt  thou  own  me  ? 

Music,  64 

The  Swan — The  Christian  daugh- 
ter, 

Ellen  Wharton,  continued,  66 

A  Blush, 

The  Monev  Diggers,  73 

The  Dying  Boy,  80 

Visit  to  Louisburg,  continued,  81 
Clara  Mason,  84 

The  Dying  Girl,  89 

Where  would  you  live  ?  89 


Page. 

Sympathetic  Friendship, 

Courtesy,  93 

Editorial,  94 

A  Hunting  Quartett.     Music,  96 

Joan  of  Arc,  97 
Difference  between  a  man  of 

sense,  &c.,  99 

A  Tale  of  the  Reformers,  100 

A  Night  Thought,  107 

The  Money  Diggers,  continued/  108 

Early  lost,  Early  saved,  114 

Reminiscences  of  a  Pastor,  115 

Councils  for  the  Young,  122 

Pleasant  Thoughts,  123 
Editor's  Table ;  Almighty  Dollar,  124 

My  beloved,  wilt  thou  own  me  ?  128 

The  Student  of  Nature,  129 

The  Shepherd,  130 

Morals  in  Rhyme,  146 

A  tale  of  Wrong  and  Revenge,  141 

The  Two  Songsters,  149 

The  Money  Diggers,  continued,  151 

Editor's  Table,  154 

I  hear  the  Robin's  morning  lay,  160 

Serepta,  161 

The  Savior's  Mission,  162 

The  Shepherd,  164 

The  Loved  and  Lost,  170 
Sketch  of  the  Empress  Josephine,  173 

The  Aching  Heart,  177 

The  Avalanche,  178 

We  shall  be  Happy  yet,  181 

John  Pounds  and  his  School,  182 

The  Term  Lady  ;  for  the  ladies,  186 

Book  Notices,  190 

The  Cottager's  Return.    Music,  192 


IV 


CONTENTS. 


VOLUME    II. 


Page. 
1 
2 

7 
8 
17 


Get  Wisdom, 

Sketch  of  John  Wesley,  No.  1, 

The  Boy  and  his  Angel, 

The  Broken-Hearted, 

Solitude, 

Letters  from  Europe,  No.  1,  20 

Take  no  thought  for  the  morrow,  23 

Leaves  from  the  Note  Book  of  a 

Governess,  23 

Farewell  to  Woodvale,  25 

Editor's  Table,  26 
You  are  very  lovely,  Lady.  Music,  30 
Sale  of  the  Pet  Lamb, 

Sketches  of  American  Scenery,  34 

The  Happy  Day,  43 

Letters  from  Europe,  No.  2,  45 

The  Mother's  Farewell,  51 

Sketches  of  Wesley,  No.  2,  52 
Leaves  from  the  Note  Book  of  a 

Governess,  56 

Editor's  Table,  60 

There  is  not  a  Tint  that  Paints,  63 

I've  Thought  of  Something,  65 

Prayer,  66 

Sketches  of  Wesley,  No.  3,  67 
The  Wife  to  her  Husband,  on  her 

Wedding  anniversary,  71 


Page. 
73 
86 


The  Indian  Captive, 
Letters  from  Europe, 
The  Fishing  Party  and  a  Walk  in 

the  Woods,  90 

Editor's  Table,  91 

Slumber  Quietly,  Lady.     Music,  95 

Your  Heart  is  a  Music-Box,  97 

Sketches  of  Wesley,  No.  4,  97 

Separation,  102 

Letters  from  Europe,  No.  4,  103 

The  Memory  of  the  Departed,  108 

The  Indian  Captive,  continued,  109 

Sonnet,  118 

Mourn  not  when  I  am  gone,  119 
Leaves  from  the  Note  Book  of  a 

Governess,  continued,  120 

To  Switzerland,  124 

Editor's  Table,  125 
Sabbath  Eve.     Music, 

Flowers,  129 

Precept  and  Example,  130 

A  Dream,  147 

The  Angel  Bride,  141 

Letters  from  Europe,  No.  5,  149 

Sketches  of  Wesley,  No.  5,  155 

Editor's  Table,  158 


• 


ILLUSTRATION     OF     THE     PLATE. 


From  the  Ladies'  Book. 

PYBUS  JAPONICA-FAIRIES'  FIRE. 

IT  is  said  that  the  fairies  have  beaming  eyes, 
And  they  light  them  at  love's  own  shrine  ; 

But  I  know  not  if  aught  below  the  skies 
Can  match  with  those  eyes  of  thine. 

Also  I  think  thou  hast  stolen  the  fairies'  fire, 

To  give  them  their  changing  light, 
And  lovers  below  may  in  vain  aspire 

To  a  being  so  wildly  bright. 

Soar  not  away  in  thy  brilliant  guise, 
For  we  fear  thou  'rt  in  truth  a  ranger ; 

And  gaze  not  so  fondly  on  yonder  skies, 

Lest  thou  take  to  thee  wings,  bright  stranger. 

L.  H. 


TRUTH  IN  FICTION. 

I  DO  not  flatter  myself,  that  by  leaving  to  the  world  a  his- 
tory of  my  past  life,  I  shall  gain  a  name  among  the  great 
ones  of  the  earth,  which  shall  live  when  I  am  no  more ;  but 
believing  the  story  of  my  follies,  setting  them  before  the 
public  in  their  true  light,  would  serve,  in  some  measure,  to 
counteract  the  influence  of  my  example,  I  have  resolved  to 
give  you  a  brief  sketch  of  my  history. 

I  am  called  Fashion.  Of  native  country  or  relatives  I 
have  no  recollection.  My  parents  must  have  died  before 
my  remembrance,  and,  no  doubt,  the  obscurity  of  my  origin 
accounts  for  the  silence  of  historians  on  that  subject.  Of 
my  early  years  I  have  a  very  limited  and  confused  remejn- 


2  TRUTH   IN   FICTION. 

brance,  so  long  has  been  ray  life,  and  so  many  and  varied  the 
scenes  I  have  been  called  to  pass  through;  and,  indeed,  I 
think  the  incidents  connected  with  my  youthful  days  were 
not  such  as  to  impress  themselves  very  distinctly  upon  the 
memory.  Years  passed  away  without  any  material  change, 
uninterrupted  by  the  irregularities  that  have  characterized 
my  subsequent  life.  I  was  then  a  much  less  distinguished 
personage  than  at  present;  but,  possessing  a  sober  and  unvi- 
tiated  taste,  I  was  content  with  the  plain  comforts  and  little 
elegancies  of  life,  not  dreaming  that  my  future  days  were  to 
be  filled  up  with  change  rather  than  usefulness. 

The  time  of  my  entri  into  the  circles  of  the  gay  was  of  too 
great  moment  ever  to  be  forgotten,  though  I  do  not  recollect 
trie  date  or  my  age  at  the  time.  My  heart  was  yet  unso- 
phisticated by  the  world,  and  my  feet  had  not  strayed  from 
the  paths  of  decorum  and  prudence,  when  a  lady  of  illustri- 
ous family,  having  formed  a  high  opinion  of  my  versatility 
of  genius,  and  native  powers  of  pleasing,  solicited  me  to 
become  her  companion,  promising  me  much  pleasure  from 
an  introduction  into  la  belle  nionde. 

Unwary  or  unsuspecting,  I  consented,  without  reflecting 
that  by  so  doing  I  should  become  the  object  of  her  caprice, 
and  an  accomplice  in  all  her  follies.  But  no  sooner  was  I 
with  her,  than  wishing  to  take  me  to  the  assembly,  she  fitted 
me  out  in  a  new  suit,  with  little  regard  to  comfort,  circum- 
stances, or  the  dictates  of  good  taste ;  but  notwithstanding 
my  own  consciousness  of  deserving  ridicule  and  animadver- 
sion, I  received  a  loud  murmur  of  applause  from  the  gaping 
crowd,  which  in  part  compensated  for  what  would  otherwise 
have  been  a  mortifying  situation.  But  reason  told  me  that 
this  was  not  to  be  attributed  to  merit,  but  merely  the  fact  of 
my  being  the  protege  of  a  lady  of  ton. 

From  this  time  I  became  engaged  in  a  continual  round  of 
dissipation.  My  company  was  sought  by  all,  and  I  fur- 
nished continually  the  subject  for  conversation.  My  chaperon 
contrived  to  vary  my  appearance  for  every  occasion,  so  that 
wherever  Iwwas,  whether  at  the  ball,  tea-party,  evening 
walk,  or  morning  street  promenade,  at  church,  or  at  home 
in  my  morning  neglige,  I  presented  to  my  admirers  some  new 
appearance. 


TRUTH  IN  FICTION.  3 

At  church,  there  were  many  that  appearances  led  me  to 
suppose  came  for  no  other  reason  than  to  gaze  at  me.  Soon, 
from  being  the  protegb  of  one  lady,  I  became  the  idol  of  the 
world,  and  thousands  claimed  to  be  my  patrons,  so  that  I 
was  hurried  about  from  city  to  villa,  and  from  empire  to 
kingdom,  as  on  the  wings  of  the  wind ;  jiothing  could  exceed 
the  rapidity  of  my  locomotion,  except  hundred-winged 
rumor.  I  have  visited  every  quarter  of  the  globe,  have 
found  welcome  at  the  courts  of  kings,  and  have  associated 
with  the  elite  of  society  in  every  city  of  civilization.  The 
great  and  the  wealthy  have  so  engrossed  my  time  that  I 
have  had  little  to  bestow  on  the  lower  order  of  society, 
though  I  usually  favor  them  with  a  pattern  of  my  dress,  rr 
a  look  at  my  picture,  and  I  make  it  my  practice  to  send  my 
cast-off  clothes  to  those  villages  and  remote  places  which  I 
have  not  time  to  visit  in  person.  Thus,  by  address  an  ! 
insinuation,  I  have  made  all  nations  my  willing  subjects,  and 
my  sovereignty  is  acknowledged  throughout  the  eartl:. 
Kings,  princes,  potentates,  bow  to  my  sceptre,  and  honor  m^ 
with  their  homage.  The  wise  and  the  learned  pay  me  their 
court,  and  the  grave  and  thinking  are  my  tributaries  with 
.scarcely  a  demur. 

My  existence  has  been  long,  and  yet  I  am  not  old.  My 
youth  is  perennial,  and  I  have  always  been  the  chosen  asso- 
ciate of  the  young,  without  being  neglected  by  the  old.  I 
have  witnessed  the  rise  and  fall  of  empires,  and  the  passing 
away  of  one  generation  after  another.  It  is  not  probable 
there  will  ever  be  any  material  change  in  my  character, 
whose  principal  trait  is  changeableness.  In  conclusion, 
though  my  life  has  been  marked  by  ambition,  rivalry,  and 
folly,  I  think  I  may  justly  lay  claim  to  the  virtue  of  useful- 
ness ;  for  no  other  individual  in  all  the  wide  world,  I  believe, 
has  done  so  much  for  the  encouragement  of  manufactures 
as  I  have.  All,  from  the  highest  manufacturing  incorpora- 
tions in  all  parts  of  the  world,  down  to  the  petty  milliner 
who  hangs  her  sign  in  every  village,  owe  most  of  their  pat- 
ronage to  me.  ANNA. 

Dracutt,  Mass.,  Dec.,  1845. 


FORGET   ME   NOT. 


"FORGET  ME  NOT." 

TO     A     FRIEND. 

THERE  is  a  little  fragile  flower 

That  bends  to  every  passing  breeze ; 

It  lingers  near  the  leafy  bower, 
Amid  the  shade  of  summer  trees. 

No  gaudy  hue  attracts  the  gaze 
Of  those  that  pass  its  humble  bed, 

No  odors  fill  the  forest  maze 
By  its  expanding  blossoms  shed. 

Yet  dearer  is  its  bending  stem 
And  cup  of  blue  that  grace  the  bower, 

Than  many  a  costly  orient  gem 
That  blazes  in  the  crown  of  power. 

For  oft  fond  friends,  when  doomed  to  part 
Its  lowly  resting-place  have  sought, 

And  whispered,  with  a  sadden'd  heart, 
"  Look  on  it,  and  forget  me  not." 

And  oft,  when  wandering  in  a  land 
That 's  dearly  loved  by  thee  and  me, 

We  gathered  with  a  gentle  hand 
This  emblem  of  sweet  constancy. 

Accept,  though  small  its  value  be, 

This  token  of  my  love  sincere, 
And  glancing  on  it,  think  on  me, 

Forget  me  not !  thou  ever  dear ! 

May  it  to  faithful  memory 

Recalling  many  a  long-loved  spot, 

For  distant  Scotland  and  for  me, 
Breathe  softly,  sweet  "  Forget  me  not.pr 

For  though  no  more  thou  view'st  the  flower, 
And  hail'st  its  blossoms  opening  fair, 

Yet  lovest  thou  to  recall  the  hour, 

When  we  have  marked  its  beauties  there  I 


A   TWILIGHT   REVERIE.  5 


A  TWILIGHT  REVERIE. 

TWILIGHT  again?  Its  wavy  shadows  are  descending 
around  me,  like  the  mountain  mists  in  lowly  vales.  They 
are  gathering  thickly;  and  methinks  I  see  them  rolling 
hither  and  thither  with  an  undulating  motion.  How  noise- 
less !  Those  gleamings  which  but  now  were  shooting  up 
the  west,  are  fainter  and  more  dim ;  and  day  is  lapsing  into 
night.  See  how  the  light  and  the  shadows  meet  and  mingle ! 
There  they  shoot  again,  those  rays,  glancing  far  away  into 
the  dark  immensity.  How  wonderful ! 

This  is  the  hour  for  reflection ;  for  all  is  hushed  and  silent 
as  the  movements  of  pleasing  thoughts  within  the  soul.  All 
is  still,  save  the  beatings  of  the  human  heart.  That  throbs 
wildly,  and  we  hope  it  ever  will,  at  this  hour,  until  the 
Master  calleth  us  away  to  the  splendors  of  a  better  world 
These  moments  are  happy  resting-places  for  the  troubled 
spirit.  When  a  deadly  quiet  settles  around  us,  and  the 
tumult  of  the  world  is  hushed,  and  the  passions  are  lulled 
to  their  silent  rest — 'tis  sweet  to  commit  the  soul  to  its  own 
way — to  its  contemplative  wanderings.  Unencumbered  with 
this  mortal  vestment,  and  powerful  in  its  own  capacities,  it 
holds  high  converse  with  the  spirits  of  the  invisible  world — 
•with  beings  palpable  to  its  own  perceptions.  How  tender 
are  its  musings  !  how  beautiful  its  reveries  !  how  delightful 
its  communings  with  those  "  spiritual  creatures,"  who 
"  keep  watch  over  the  elements,  and  preside  over  the  desti- 
nies of  men !  "  How  sublime  are  its  aspirations,  when, 
beyond  the  clouds — beyond  the  stars — beyond  the  limits  of 
this  mortal  vision,  onward  it  pursues  its  flight,  and  would 
fain  pierce  into  the  mysteries  of  the  eternity  to  come — of  the 
eternity  which  hath  gone  by!  Oh!  for  a  language — a 
power  wherewith  to  embody  these  workings  of  the  spirit, 
which  are  an  ecstasy  of  delight — an  excess  of  life.  But  the 
reflecting  and  imaginative  mind  well  comprehends,  and  can 
with  congenial  sympathy  enter  into  these  mysterious  mus- 
ings. There  is  a  language  comprehended  by  the  spiritual 
senses,  although  it  baflles  all  mortal  power  of  expression, 


D  A    TWILIGHT    REVERIE. 

It  requires  not  the  tongue  to  give  intelligibility  to  its  mean- 
ing. There  is  a  language  in  the  stars,  a  language  of  the 
flowers :  there  is  a  voice  in  the  night-wind — and  in  the 
"trumpet-blowing  cataract:"  there  is  a  breathing  poetry 
throughout  this  beautiful  world — and  in  the  mighty  silence 
of  the  limitless  space. 

At  this  hour,  such  have  been  my  reveries,  these  threescore 
years.  Up  to  this  old  age,  have  I  "reverenced  the  dreams 
of  my  youth."  All  its  fair  visions  have  gone  with  me 
through  life,  and  now  they  bless  me.  Time  has  dealt 
kindly  with  me,  and  has  gently  besprinkled  my  brow  with 
frosts.  Come  with  me  then,  and  give  one  hour  to  idleness. 
Let  us  wander  far  up  the  stream  of  Time  again,  and  look 
upon  the  innocence,  the  simplicity,  the  purity  of  our  departed 
childhood;  for  to  the  old,  this  power  is  specially  given. 
This  earth  was  made  for  youth,  and  was  fashioned  for  its 
spirit  to  revel  in,  and  in  its  splendors  ever  to  delight.  The 
spirit  of  beauty  haunts  the  young  soul  like  a  presence, — there- 
fore is  creation  fair.  Mysterious  musings  hang  about  the 
spirit  of  our  childhood, — therefore  is  creation  wondrous. 
Come,  and  away  with  me  then  to  the  childhood's  land,  and 
let  us  take  upon  ourselves  once  more  its  tender  sensibilities 
to  nature — its  simple  affection  for  her  charms. 

Nature  was  our  mother  there,  and  under  her  guidance,  like 
children,  we  were  led  away  from  the  world  of  man.  Free 
as  the  air  of  heaven,  she  conducted  us  in  our  rovings,  and 
poured  fresh  beauties  on  the  soul.  Into  our  ears  there 
glided  most  tender  instruction,  and  all  around  our  daily 
paths,  she  strewed  the  emblems  of  virtue  and  of  wisdom. 
She  was  ever  speaking  to  us;  and  her  language  was  under- 
stood. We  wandered  often  in  the  groves  and  in  the  quiet 
woods.  These  were  her  temples ;  and  she  held  therein  con- 
tinual worship.  A  majestic  presence  was  brooding  there — 
a  viewless  being;  and  we  stood  in  amazement — and  fear 
came  upon  us  like  an  oppression — and  we  listened  to  deep 
sounds  "manifold  and" wondrous."  Solemnly  they  came 
from  out  the  silence  arid  the  gloom,  shedding  a  reverence 
and  a  sanctity  upon  the  soul.  Spirits  were  passing  us  in 
our  wonderment,  speaking  in  voices  of  the  winds,  and  m 
murmurings  of  the  waters,  and  sweet  incense  rose  around 


A    TWILIGHT    REVERIE.  7 

us,  and  this  was  the  breath  of  flowers.  We  stood  upon 
holy  ground,  and  while  we  worshipped,  our  young  "hearts 
burned  within  us."  This  was  nature's  lesson — and  thus 
was  the  spirit  taught  to  know  there  was  a  Power  on  high, 
wonderful  to  create  and  keep  all  things  in  love. 

In  the  evening  time,  she  also  led  us  forth,  at  the  blessed, 
quiet  hour,  when  all  the  world  is  going  to  its  rest.  The 
vales  were  sleeping  in  repose,  the  birds  and  beasts  were 
moving  to  their  homes,  the  sun  was  sinking  behind  the 
west,  and  all  the  sounds  of  earth  were  hushed  in  reverence 
for  the  coming  hour.  The  winds  were  quiet  in  their  caves, 
and  the  gorgeous  clouds,  which  hastened  to  the  mountain- 
tops,  stopped  suddenly — and  there  around  the  west  they 
hung,  bound  by  the  solemn  spell.  Even  man  was  rested 
from  his  troublous  cares,  and  was  still  awhile,  and  came  up 
with  us  in  company  to  know  yet  once  again  under  what 
tender  influences  his  childhood  passed  away.  'T  was  quiet 
there — a  Sabbath  quiet,  which  moved  far  in,  and  brooded 
on  the  soul,  stirring  all  its  depths  to  solemn  musings.  All 
our  thoughts  were  holy  thoughts,  coming  up  from  the  pur- 
est fountains ;  and,  though  un whispered  here,  were  heard 
in  heaven.  We  wept,  and  tears,  fast  tears,  came  from  their 
resting-places — and  on  the  bended  knee,  we  breathed  out 
thanks  and  prayers;  for  'twas  too  much  beauty  for  simple 
hearts  to  stand  and  gaze  upon,  unmoved.  The  adoration 
of  that  childhood's  hour  was  worship  most  acceptable,  and 
went  forth  up  to  the  throne  of  God.  And  this  was  nature's 
teaching  too :  and  thus  the  spirit  early  learned  to  worship 
the  Most  High. 

It  was  not  at  the  twilight  hour  alone,  n'or  in  the  quiet 
woods,  that  enchantments  grew  upon  us,  and  "  truths  awoke 
to  perish  never."  There  too  were  solemn  sounds  when 
darkness  came  abroad — sounds  coming  to  us  from  the  far- 
off  depths  of  space;  and  moving  in  upon -us  through  the 
silence,  with  a  grandeur  all  their  own ;  they  spoke  to  us  of 
the  majesty  of  God.  And  there  were  gentler  sounds  than 
these — sweet  murmurings  poured  out  upon  the  bosom  of  the 
night;  and  coming  to  us  on  the  moonlight's  ray,  the  word 
they  spoke  was  "peace."  At  all  time,  in  all  seasons;  from 
the  green  fields,  and  from  the  flowing  streams;  in  the  blush- 


8  A    TWILIGHT    REVERIE. 

ing  morn,  and  in  the  deep  blue  ocean  of  the  sky ;  from 
humble  flowers — from  everything — there  came  a  voice, 
"strong  in  its  sweetness,  the  spirit  to  enthrall." 

Thus  did  nature  lead  us  with  her  maternal  smiles ;  and 
under  such  influences  did  we  sojourn  in  that  bright  and 
happy  land.  Our  spirits  were  purer  there.  They  were  not 
tainted  by  any  unhallowed  influence  coming  from  the  world. 
We  worshipped  the  ideal ;  and  the  beauty  of  our  being  was 
ever  lingering  near  us.  It  was  enough  to  gaze  upon  the 
brightness  which  shone  everywhere  around  us,  and  to  pry 
into  the  very  life  of  things. 

Happy  those  early  days  when  1, 
Shrined  in  my  angel  infancy  ! 
Ere  I  understood  this  place 
Appointed  for  my  second  race, 
Or  taught  my  soul  to  fancy  aught, 
But  a  white  celestial  thought ; 
When  on  some  gilded  cloud  or  flower 
My  gazing  soul  would  dwell  an  hour, 
And  in  those  weaker  glories,  spy 
Some  shadows  of  eternity — 
Ere  I  had  taught  myself  to  wound 
My  conscience  with  a  sinful  sound : 
Or  had  the  black  art  to  dispense 
A  several  sin  to  every  sense  : 
But  felt  through  all  this  fleshly  dress, 
Bright  shoots  of  everlastingness. 

Henry  Vaughan. 

And  happy  that  one,  who  has  preserved  these  feelings  in 
his  heart,  beautiful  in  all  their  simplicity  and  freshness  ! 
Such  a  man  lives  in  a  charmed  existence.  He  is  not  chained 
down  to  things  of  time  and  sense.  In  his  soul  are  mirrored 
the  semblances  of  beauty  in  the  world  without.  He  turns 
to  the  world  within,  and  makes  his  dwelling-place  with  the 
images  of  the  true,  the  beautiful,  the  sublime.  His  ear  is 
always  sensitive  to  the  silent  lessons  which  all  things  com- 
municate. His  eye  is  always  open  to  behold  the  perfection 
of  this  creation,  and  to  look  upon  the  evidence  of  a  spirit  of 
power,  and  benevolence,  and  love,  which  pervade  it.  A 
religion  is  ever  around  him  and  within  him.  The  world  is 
the  temple  of  his  worship,  and  in  its  silent  places,  he  bends 


A   TWILIGHT   REVERIE.  9 

and  gives  the  homage  of  a  grateful  heart  to  the  great  Archi- 
tect of  the  universe — to  the  Dispenser  of  bounties  which  are 
ever  varying  and  ever  numerous.  His  devotions  know  no 
method  or  fixed  seasons,  but  are  ever  fervent,  and  lively, 
and  constant.  In  the  volume  of  nature,  he  beholds  the  per- 
fections and  attributes  of  the  Deity;  and  through  nature,  he 
beholds  her  God.  His  life  is  a  continual  worship  of  God  in 
his  attributes,  and  his  pleasures  are  but  foreshadowings  of  a 
more  perfect  happiness  in  another  and  a  better  world. 

With  this  twilight  hour  are  associated  also  the  home  of 
my  infancy,  and  the  companions  of  my  boyhood.  They 
come  before  me  with  a  thousand  delicious  reminiscences. 
In  those  seasons  of  quiet  which  then  attend  me,  when  the 
silence  seems  a  solemnity  too  holy  to  be  broken,  the  gentle 
waters  of  the  soul  are  stirred,  fondest  memories  are  again 
awakened,  and  sweet  sounds  of  happy  voices  vibrate  trem- 
blingly on  my  ear  again. 

Listen  to  the  shouts  of  those  happy  children  !  They  are 
there  in  the  far-off  past,  gamboling  and  frolicking  in  the  glad- 
someness  of  their  hearts,  over  the  sunny  fields  which  stretch 
around  the  homestead.  How  beautiful  those  bright-eyed 
creatures  in  their  playful  innocence  ! 

There  is  the  mother,  too,  her  heart  beating  with  joy  and 
love,  gazing  on  their  sports  and  happiness.  As  that  shadow 
is  crossing  her  brow,  what  hopes  and  fears  is  she  telling  for 
their  coming  years?  A  mother's  heart  can  only  know. 

The  sun  has  gone  down,  and  "  all  the  home-faces  are  met 
by  the  blaze."  Those  merry  shouts  are  hushed.  Those 
wild,  joyous  creatures,  who  seemed  as  if  restless  forever,  with 
the  loved  and  cherished  mother,  and  venerated  father,  are 
circled  together  in  solemnity  to  worship  God.  Those  bright, 
fair  beings  are  clustered  around  the  sire,  as  he  repeats 

"  Those  strains  that  once  did  sweet  in  Zion  glide." 

Surely  some  angles  were  hovering  over  that  blessed  scene. 
But  where  is  now  that  praying  father — that  tender  mother? 
They  are  gone  to  the  "spirit-land."  And  those  merry  chil- 
dren, where  are  they  ?  Gone  too — 

They  are  All  gone  into  a  world  of  light, 

And  I,  alone,  sit  lingering  here  : 
Their  very  memory  is  fair  and  bright, 

And  my  sad  thoughts  doth  cheer. 


10  A    TWILIGHT    REVERIE. 

It  glows  and  glitters  in  my  cloudy  breast, 

Like  stars  upon  some  gloomy  grove : 
Or  those  faint  beams  in  which  the  hill  is  drest, 

After  the  sun's  remove. 

I  see  them  walking  in  air  of  glory ! 

Whose  light  doth  trample  on  my  days : 
My  days,  which  are  at  best  but  dull  and  hoary, 

Were  glimmerings  and  decays. 

Oh !  holy  hope  and  high  humility  ! 

High  as  the  heavens  above ! 
These  are  your  walks,  and  you  've  showed  them  me, 

To  kindle  my  cold  love. — Henry  Vaughan. 

Twilight  reminds  me  of  the  feebleness  and  dimness  of  my 
old  age.  The  circle  of  human  life  will  be  soon  completed. 
Its  two  extremes— the  first  and  second  childhood — will 
soon  glide  into  each  other. 

Far  down  the  vale  of  years,  on  the  desolate  shores  of 
time,  behold  a  bending  form,  venerable  in  its  infirmity.  In 
the  misty  twilight  of  his  existence,  he  is  wandering  there, 
awaiting  the  summons,  which  shall  call  him  to  the  bound- 
less ocean  before  him — the  Ocean  of  Eternity.  In  the  infancy 
of  his  years,  life  to  him  stretched  itself  far  away  into  the 
coming  future.  In  his  manhood,  he  stood  upon  an  elevated 
midway,  between  the  extremes  of  life ;  while,  behind  him, 
lay  the  path  of  years  in  which  he  had  strayed ;  and  before, 
was  expanded  a  part  of  that  same  future,  beautified  and  bril- 
liant with  the  illusive  enchantments  of  hope.  But  the  future 
has  now  become  the  past — the  proud  strength  of  manhood 
has  passed  into  the  trembling  feebleness  of  age — and  he 
stands  on  that  solemn  shore,  the  dim  shadow  of  his  former 
self;  while,  in  his  ear,  is  ever  sounding  the  murmuring  of 
the  ocean-wave,  as  it  comes  gliding  and  rippling  at  his  feet. 

And  now,  reader,  farewell !  And  when  death  comes 
slowly  on,  may  good  spirits  attend  us,  with  power  "  to  rob 
the  spectre  of  its  terror,  and  the  grave  of  its  sting:  so  that, 
all  gently  and  unconscious  to  ourselves,  life  may  glide  into 
the  great  ocean  where  the  shadows  lie;  and  our  spirits, 
without  guile,  may  be  severed  from  their  mansions,  without 
pain.  J.  c.  M.  D. 


THE    CHRISTIAN   SOLDIER.  11 


For  the  Magnolia. 

THE  CHRISTIAN  SOLDIER. 

"  The  sword  of  the  Spirit,  which  is  the  word  of  God."— Paul. 

AIR — "  Queen  Mary's  Escape." 

I. 

FLY,  soldier,  fly !  and  arm  with  speed, 
For  this  is  the  time  and  the  hour  of  need, 
A  host  of  foes,  of  deadly  hate, 
In  legions  strong  around  thee  wait. 

If  conquered,  thine  is  an  endless  blot, 

With  flesh  and  blood  thou  wrestlest  not ; 

Then,  warrior,  fly,  and  arm  with  speed ! 

For  now  is  the  time  and  the  hour  of  need. 


II. 

The  world,  the  flesh,  and  Satan  stand, 
Each  sways  a  host  of  hostile  bands ! 
Would'st  thou  a  ceaseless  triumph  know 
O'er  this,  thy  mighty,  three-fold  foe  : 
There  is  a  sword  of  wond'rous  fame, 
The  "  WORD  OF  GOD"  is  its  potent  name ; 
Then,  warrior,  haste,  and  arm  with  speed, 
For  now  is  the  time  and  the  hour  of  need. 


m. 

Now,  Christian  soldier,  hail !  all  hail ! 
If  armored  thus,  thou  wilt  prevail, 
When  thus  equipped,  the  little  child, 
Mid  contest  fierce,  in  hope  hath  smiled ; 
Though  foes  may  compass,  thousands  strong, 
Still  thou  shalt  sing  the  victor's  song  ; 
Hail,  warrior !  might  is  thine  indeed, 
In  this  thy  time  and  thy  hour  of  need. 

p.  P. 


12 


REMINISCENCES  OF  A  PASTOR. 


LINES  WRITTEN  IN  AN  ALBUM. 

I  LEAVE  my  name,  an  humble  name,  'tis  true, 

But,  if,  dear  friend,  when  it  shall  meet  your  view, 

It  wakes  a  thought  of  me  ;  and  that  thought  should  impart 

A  thrill,  which  says,  "  Within  my  inmost  heart, 

Thine  image,  not  alone  thy  name  doth  live  ;" 

'T  would  to  this  humble  name  a  new  importance  give. 

p.  P. 


REMINISCENCES   OP   A  PASTOR. 

PASSING  along  a  thoroughfare  of  one  of  our  large  cities, 
and  musing  upon  the  different  objects  which  were  continu- 
ally presenting  themselves  to  my  attention,  I  could  but  utter 
to  myself,  "  What  a  world  in  miniature  is  here — these  win- 
dows, how  beautiful,  how  like  palaces  within,  how  fresh  and 
inviting  everything  appears — why,  they  look  like  new; — O, 
I  recollect,  they  have  just  fitted  up  for  Christmas.  There 
goes  a  gentleman ;  how  care-worn  he  looks.  I  '11  venture, 
he  is  thinking  about  his  note  in  the  bank,  and  saying  to 
himself,  'To-morrow  I  must  meet  it — but  how?'  Here 
goes  a  company,  flirting  -along,  gay  and  happy;  no  care, — 
all  is  gaiety  and  high-life.  Aye,  said  I  to  myself,  the  but- 
terfly is  more  beautifully  adorned,  and  can  rise  higher  in 
the  air  than  the  lion  ;  but  these  short-lived  beauties  soon  die 
away.  Here  comes  a  man  with  a  very  dignified  appearance, 
and  placid  countenance,  a  parson  I  suppose.  HB  is  trying 
to  analyze  some  text  of  scripture,  or  moralizing,  and  specu- 
lating upon  the  scenes  before  him,  like  myself.  What  now  ? 
There 's  a  mob,  a  cry — stop  thief — away  they  go,  by  hun- 
dreds; they -are  out  of  sight.  Don't  know  whether  they 
will  catch  him  or  not — hope  they  will  if  he  is  guilty.  Here 
comes  Sooty,  singing  merrily,  his  every-day  song — '  Sweep 
O,  sweep,'  &c.  How  he  sings.  He  is  happier  now,  with 
his  sooty  blanket  over  his  shoulders,  than  many  of  these 
people  who  are  dressed  in  their  superfines.  Here  sits  a 
blind  beggar  with  his  withered  hand  extended  to  the  pass- 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A    PASTOR.  13 

er-by,  for  a  small  pittance.  Poor  fellow,  if  1  could  say  as 
did  the  Divine  Saviour,  '  Receive  thy  sight,'  how  gladly 
would  I  do  it;  but  since  I  have  not  this  apostolic  power,  I 
have  what  they  had  not,  a  little  silver;  here  goes  a  bit — 
'God  bless  you,'  utters  the  grateful  beggar,  and  I  pass  on, 
saying  to  myself,  '  the  blessing  of  him  that  was  ready  to 
perish  has  come  upon  me.'  There  goes  the  reeling  drunk- 
ard, quite  a  young  looking  man,  well-dressed.  What  a 
pity  !  On  the  road  to  ruin — ruined,  perhaps,  already.  Who 
knows  but  he  may  now  have  a  praying  mother,  who  loves 
him  tenderly,  and  prays  for  him  every  day.  How  would 
her  heart  bleed  to  see  him  in  such  a  plight.  May  he  be 
rescued. 

O,  these  scenes  of  wealth,  poverty,  vice,  misery,  and  deg- 
radation, how  heart-sickening.  Here  they  are  all  mixed, 
and  crowded  together.  What  a  mass  of  moral  corruption 
must  there  be  in  this  large  city.  Here  it  puts  on  its  best 
garb ;  this  is  the  most  fashionable  and  respectable  part  of 
this  great  city.  Here  are  its  lions  of  wealth,  of  pride,  and 
beauty.  This  is  the  emporium  of  its  fascinations.  'Tis 
here  that  the  world  vainly  endeavors  to  demonstrate  that 
its  votaries  are  happy.  It  stands  out  in  bold  relief,  bidding 
the  stranger  and  passer-by,  to  look  on  and  see  if  '  Paradise 
is  not  regained' — but  alas!  it  seems  to  me  more  like  'Par- 
adise lost.'  All  this  apparent  happiness  is  heartless  and 
superficial — there  is  a  worm  at  the  root  that  eats  as  doth 
a  canker.' 

Lost  to  all  surrounding  objects,  in  a  kind  of  revery,  I  had 
imperceptibly  slackened  my  pace,  and  was  walking  much 
more  leisurely  than  the  forms  that  were  flitting  by  me  on 
every  hand,  when  my  attention  was  suddenly  attracted  by 
a  very  soft  and  gentle  voice,  saying,  "Sir,  won't  you  please 
give  me  a  few  pennies  to  buy  some  bread ! "  There  stood 
before  me  a  little  girl  about  ten  years  old.  Her  form  was 
slender  and  graceful,  her  countenance  pale,  and  somewhat 
dejected,  and  her  dress  very  neat  and  clean.  She  did  not 
look  like  a  common  street  beggar.  She  had  evidently  seen 
better  days.  I  was  interested ;  my  heart  was  just  in  the 
right  state  to  be  affected  by  such  an  object. 

"Child,"  said  I,  "have  you  no  parents?"     "Oyes,  sir, 


14  REMINISCENCES    OF   A   PASTOR. 

I  have  a  mother,  two  brothers,  and  one  little  sister."  "  But 
can't  your  mother  get  any  bread,  and  does  she  support  her 
family  by  your  begging  along  the  streets?"  There  was  a 
slight  blush  came  upon  the  cheeks  of  this  little  suppliant, 
and  she  appeared  much  embarrassed,  hesitated  a  moment, 
and  with  her  blue  eyes  glistening  with  tears,  she  was  about 
to  turn  away  from  me.  "  Speak,  my  child,"  said  I,  "  you 
shall  not  be  harmed."  Her  confidence  returned,  and  she 
began — "Why,  sir,  this  is  the  first  time  in  my  life  that  I 
ever  begged  for  bread,  and  I  will  tell  you  in  a  few  words 
how  I  have  come  to  do  it.  This  morning  my  little  brother 
Sammy  cried  for  some  bread,  and  mother  said  that  she  had 
none.  I  told  her  that  I  would  go  and  buy  some.  Upon 
which,  poor  mother  burst  into  tears,  and  said  that  she  had 
no  money.  Little  Willy  had  not  yet  waked  up,  but  I  feared 
that  he  soon  would,  and  then  he  too  would  be  crying  for 
bread.  It  was  nine  o'clock,  and  we  had  nothing  for  break- 
fast. Dear  mother  was  weeping,  and  Sammy  was  crying, 
saying,  'I'm  hungry — I'm  hungry — mother,  why  don't 
you  give  me  something  to  eat?'  So  I  ran  out  into  the  street 
to  see  if  I  could  not  meet  with  some  kind  stranger  who 
would  give  me  a  few  pennies,  that  poor  mother  might  not 
weep  herself  quite  sick,  and  we  have  something  to  eat." 
"  My  child,  how  long  is  it  since  you  have  become  so  poor?" 
"  Not  but  a  short  time,  sir.  Father  died  a  few  months  ago ; 
while  he  was  sick  the  officers  shut  up  his  store,  and  after 
his  death,  sold  it,  and  took  away  almost  everything  we  had, 
and  then  the  landlord  came,  and  told  us  that  we  must  move 
out  of  his  house.  We  had  a  few  things  left,  which  mother 
sold,  and  now  all  is  gone — she  hasn't  enough  left  to  buy  a 
loaf  of  bread."  "Your  story  seems  reasonable— where  do 
you  live  ?"  "  O  sir.  do  not  ask  me  that  question ;  I  should  be 
ashamed  to  take  such  a  gentleman  as  you  to  such  a  poor 
looking  place ;  beside,  my  poor  mother  would  feel  very  bad 
if  I  should.  She  would  blame  me  for  doing  what  I  have 
done.  If  we  lived  where  we  once  did,  I  should  have  no 
fears.  We  then  had  a  good  house,  plenty  of  room,  all  hand- 
somely furnished,  and  enough  of  everything;  but  now  we 
are  crowded  away  into  a  little  upper  room,  and  a  number 
of  families  in  the  same  house.  I  told  mother  that  I  hoped 


REMINISCENCES   OF*   A   PASfOR.  15 

that  she  would  move  somewhere  else  where  we  could  have 
more  room,  and  things  more  pleasant.  But  she  said  that 
she  could  not,  because  she  could  not  pay  the  rent  of  such  a 
place,  and  was  even  afraid  that  we  should  be  all  turned  out 
of  doors,  and  not  have  as  good  a  place  as  the  one  we  now 
occupy."  Here  the  poor  little  thing  became  deeply  affected, 
and  my  heart  was  touched.  I  resolved  that  succor  should 
come  to  that  poor  unfortunate  family,  if  upon  farther  exam- 
ination I  found  her  artless  story  correct.  With  some  emo- 
tion, I  said,  "  Tell  me,  child,  where  you  live,  and  I  will 
make  all  things  right  with  your  mother  when  I  see  her." 
"We  live,"  said  she,  "in  — —  street,  No.  — .  Mother's 
name  is  Mrs.  W."  "Here  is  a  piece  of  money,— go  buy 
something  for  breakfast,  and  tell  your  mother  that  I  will 
call  some  time  this  afternoon,  and  see  her."  "  Thank  you 
— thank  you,  dear  sir,"  and  away  she  tripped.  In  a  mo- 
ment she  turned  a  corner  and  disappeared. 

To  me,  this  seemed  an  eventful  morning.  God  has  some- 
thing for  me  to  do  for  that  poor  family.  Blessed  work ;  I 
had  rather  be  binding  up  the  broken-hearted,  wiping  away 
the  tear  of  sorrow,  drying  up  the  fountains  of  human  misery, 
visiting  the  widow  and  fatherless  in  their  affliction,  than  to 
be  in  heaven ; — for  there,  there  are  no  tears  to  wipe  away, 
no  hungry  to  feed,  no  mourning  souls  to  comfort.  It  is 
only  during  this  short  life  that  we  can  perform  these  acts  of 
kindness,  and  benevolence  to  our  needy  and  suffering  fellow- 
beings.  May  God  help  me  to  be  faithful. 

I  had  fixed  in  my  own  mind  upon  four  o'clock,  P.  M.,  on 
which  to  make  that  call,  as  my  engagements  were  such  I 
could  not  well  attend  to  it  before.  But  so  anxious  was  I  to 
perform  my  mission  that  the  intervening  six  hours  seemed 
like  a  long  time  to  wait ;  but  time,  which  waits  for  no  mail, 
rolled  on,  till  at  length,  the  hour,  the  set  time  had  come. 
The  clock  struck  four,  and  glad  was  I  to  hear  it.  Just  at 
that  moment  I  was  sitting  in  my  study,  reading  this  beauti- 
ful passage,  the  words  of  my  blessed  Lord — "Inasmuch  as 
ye  have  done  it  unto  one  of  the  least  of  these  my  brethren,  ye 
have  done  it  unto  me."  I  closed  the  blessed  book  with  this 
•sweet  promise  of  Holy  Writ  applied  to  my  heart  with  the 
warming  influence  of  a  Saviour's  love.  I  took  my  cane, 


16  REMINISCENCES    OF   A   PASTOR. 

and  immediately  departed.  The  wind  blew  furiously,  while 
it  snowed,  and  the  cold  was  piercing.  The  sky  was  covered 
with  dark  clouds,  such  as  are  peculiar  to  severe  snow-squalls. 
It  was  gloomy  without;  but  so  intent  was  I  upon  my  object, 
that  I  scarcely  realized  the  inclemency  of  the  weather ;  but 
on  I  went,  from  street  to  street.  It  was  quite  a  distance  to 
walk,  the  place  being  in  an  obscure  part  of  the  city.  At 
length,  I  came  to  the  street,  and  after  some  considerable 
looking,  found  the  place.  It  was  a  large  brick  building,  old 
and  shackling,  occupied  with  as  many  families  as  there  were 
rooms  in  it,  of  almost  all  nations,  with  scores  of  children.  I 
entered  by  a  long,  dark  hall,  where  I  met  a  number  of  these 
little  urchins,  ragged,  filthy,  and  shoeless.  The  poor  little 
fellows  seemed  shivering  with  the  cold,  and  perhaps  had  not 
had  enough  of  even  the  coarsest  fare  to  satisfy  their  hun- 
ger. Of  one  of  them  I  inquired,  "  Does  Mrs.  W.  reside 
here?"  "  Yes,  she  lives  up  them  stairs  in  the  back  room." 
I  ascended  the  first  flight,  knocked  at  the  door  to  which  I 
supposed  myself  directed,  and  a  woman  came  and  opened 
the  door.  "Is  this  Mrs.  W.  ?"  "No,  sir;  she  lives  at  the 
head  of  the  next  flight  of  stairs  in  the  back  room."  I 
ascended  them  also,  and  though  the  passage-way  was  dark, 
I  soon  found  the  door,  and  knocked ;  the  door  was  immedi- 
ately opened.  And  who  should  I  first  see  but  the  little  girl 
to  whom  I  had  made  the  engagement.  Her  name  was  Mary. 
She  met  me  with  a  sweet  smile,  and  bid  me  walk  in.  There 
sat  the  mother,  and  sure  enough  there  were  little  Sammy 
and  Willy,  and  the  little  sister  in  the  cradle,  which  little 
Sammy  was  that  moment  rocking.  "  Mother,"  said  Mary, 
"  this  is  that  good  stranger  whom  I  met  this  morning,  and 
was  so  kind  as  to  give  me  that  piece  of  money,  and  to  prom- 
ise to  call  and  see  us  this  afternoon."  The  mother  received 
me  with  all  the  gracefulness  of  a  lady  who  had  been  well- 
educated,  and  accustomed  to  good  society.  And,  indeed, 
she  was  a  lady.  She  was  yet  young,  having  married  at  the 
too  early  age  of  sixteen.  Her  form  was  genteel,  rather  slen- 
der; her  face  was  quite  thin  and  pale;  but  there  was  intel- 
ligence which  flashed  in  her  eyes,  and  while  an  occasional 
smile  beamed  upon  her  countenance,  she  appeared  amiable 
and  benignant.  The  two  little  boys,  the  one  eight,  and  the 


REMINISCENCES   OF   A   PASTOR. 


17 


other  five  years  old,  were  beautiful  children,  and  appeared 
as  cheerful  and  happy  as  if  they  had  been  in  a  palace. 
"Madam,"  said  I,  "my  unexpected  acquaintance  with  you 
I  consider  providential.  You  have  doubtless  been  informed 
by  your  daughter  of  the  circumstances  which  have  brought 
me  here.  My  motives  in  calling  upon  you  are  of  the  purest 
character,  such  as  I  think  would  influence  my  Saviour  if  he 
were  upon  earth,  to  do  the  same.  That  you  may  have  no 
suspicions  to  the  contrary,  I  will  inform  yon  who  I  am,  and 

what  I  am.     My  name  is  B .     I  live  in street,  No. 

— ,  and  am  a  clergyman  by  profession,  having  the  pastoral 

charge  of church.    I  judged  from  the  statements  of  your 

daughter  that  possibly  you  had  been  unfortunate,  and  from 
a  state  of  affluence  in  the  world,  you  had  experienced  a  sud- 
den reverse  of  fortune,  which  had  reduced  you  to  this  state 
of  indigence.  That  the  change  was  so  great  and  unexpect- 
ed, your  mind  sunk  down  under  it  into  a  kind  of  despair, 
which  paralyzed  every  effort  necessary  to  rise  above  it. 
That  in  this  discouraged,  and  perhaps  mortified  state  of 
mind,  you  had  determined  to  hide  yourself  in  some  secluded 
place  from  all  your  former  friends,  and  live  and  die  unknown. 
In  short,  I  supposed  that  you  might  be  in  a  state  of  mind  in 
which  hope  had  well-nigh  departed,  and  you  felt  as  though 
you  were  cast  a  wreck  upon  the  world,  without  a  friend. 
These  being  my  impressions,  I  determined  to  see  if  I  could 
not  do  something  for  you,  provided  I  was  right  in  my  sur- 
mises. Who  knows,  said  I  to  myself,  but  I  may  be  able  to 
send  out  the  life-boat,  and  save  an  interesting  family  from 
becoming  a  total  wreck  V 

Mrs.  W.  could  restrain  her  feelings  no  longer.  The  tears 
ran  in  rivers  down  those  pale  cheeks,  which  had  become 
somewhat  tinged  by  the  fever  of  excitement.  Her  heart  was 
too  full  for  utterance,  and  she  wept  bitterly.  I  silently 
waited  until  she  could  sufficiently  command  her  feelings  to 
reply.  She  was  evidently  trying  to  restrain  her  emotions, 
and  at  length  she  succeeded.  After  having  wiped  away  the 
tears,  she  began,  "  Sir,  I  thought  I  had  not  a  friend  on  earth ; 
but  God  is  better  to  me  than  my  fears.  He  has  raised  me 
np  one  in  you.  And  as  you  are  his  servant,  he  has  apprized 
you  of  the  exact  state  of  my  case.  Your  impressions  con- 
2 


18  REMINISCENCES    OF    A    PASTOE. 

cerning  me  are  true  to  the  letter.  How  you  should  so  accu- 
rately know  my  feelings  I  cannot  tell,  unless  the  spirit  of 
the  Lord  has  made  the  suggestion  to  your  mind.  I  am  quite 
sure  my  little  daughter  could  not  have  told  you,  nor  any 
other  human  being.  These  feelings  were  in  my  own  heart, 
and  known  only  to  God,  and  myself.  I  had  no  earthly 
friend  to  whom  I  could  unbosom  my  sorrows  and  complaints. 
I  carried  them  to  the  Lord,  and  I  frequently  felt  that  he  was 
my  only  friend.  But  what  a  friend  is  He  ?  What  comfort 
have  I  received  from  him  when  in  my  closet  I  have  suppli- 
cated his  throne  of  mercy.  How  have  I  claimed  him  '  the 
widow's  God,  and  the  father  to  my  fatherless  children.' 
All  my  earthly  hopes  and  prospects  have  been  blighted ;  but 
hope  in  God  has  sustained  me.  My  poverty  and  adversity 
have  driven  me  to  Him,  my  affections  have  been  severed 
from  this  vain  and  unsatisfying  world,  and  I  have  held 
communion  with  Heaven.  This,  dear  sir,  has  been  my  only 
comfort  and  solace.  This  morning,  when  my  little  daugh- 
ter was  absent,  I  knew  not  where,  and  poor  little  Samrny 
was  crying  for  bread,  and  I  had  none  to  give,  upon  my 
bended  knees  before  God,  I  committed  my  cause  into  his 
hands,  and  once  more  plead  his  promise.  Instantly  my  soul 
was  calmed  within  me,  and  I  felt  assured  that  he  who  fed 
the  young  ravens,  opened  his  liberal  hand,  and  supplied  the 
wants  of  all  his  creatures,  would  lake  care  of  me  and  mine. 
Already  I  began  to  praise  him,  as  if  I  had  received  his  boun- 
ty. In  a  few  minutes,  Mary  came  running  in-, — '  Mother, 
I  have  got  some  bread,  and  some  things  for  breakfast.  A 
stranger  gave  me  some  money  to  purchase  them  with,  and 
he  talked  so  kind  to  me,  asked  me  all  about  my  mother,  and 
all  the  family.  He  was  so  good,  that  I  told  him  all  my  heart. 
He  says  that  he  will  call  this  afternoon,  and  see  us,  and  if  I 
have  told  him  the  truth  he  will  try  and  do  something  for  us.' 
'  O  Mary,'  said  I,  '  how  came  you  to  see  him ;  did  you  stop 
him  in  the  street,  and  beg  for  some  money  V  '  Yes,  mother, 
I  did.'  '  How  could  you,  child]'  '  Why,  mother,  should  we 
starve  to  death  ?  '  I  saw  this  stranger  moving  slowly  down 

B ,  and  I  thought  he  looked  like  a  minister.     He  is  a 

good  man  if  he  is  one,  and  maybe  he  will  hear  me,  for  I  had 
already  spoken  to  two  others,  and  they  were  walking  so 


SYMPATHY.  19 

fast  that  they  would  not  stop  to  notice  me.  But  this  good 
man  stopped,  and  several  times  while  talking  with  me,  he 
took  his  white  handkerchief,  and  wiped  the  tears  from  his 
eyes.  O  mother,  he  is  a  good  man,  I  know  he  is.'  Thus 
you  perceive,  sir,  how  God  hears  prayer,  and  I  also  trust 
that  you  see  the  secret  spring  that  has  moved  you  to 
this  timely  assistance,  and  to  visit  us  in  our  solitude  and 
penury." 

"  Mrs.  W.,  I  am  perfectly  satisfied  that  God  has  sent  me 
here,  and  I  rejoice  that  he  has  conferred  upon  me  so  great  a 
privilege,  and  exalted  an  honor.  I  am  happy  that  he  has 
seen  fit  to  choose  me  from  among  the  multitude,  to  pour  into 
your  wounded  and  fainting  heart,  the  wine  and  oil  of  conso- 
lation. It  is  of  God,  I  trust,  and  by  his  grace  I  shall  strive 
to  obey  him.  So  clear  am  I  as  to  the  path  of  duty,  that  I 
reckon  this  among  the  most  fortunate  and  happiest  hours  of 
my  life, 

"  Will  you,  madam,  oblige  me  so  much  as  to  inform  mo 
of  what  you  are  for  the  present  the  most  needy,  and  your 
wants  shall  be  promptly  met." 

Mrs.  W.  seemed  much  embarrassed  at  this  request,  and 
hesitated — "Why,  sir,  as  to  my  immediate  wants,  I  hardly 
know  what  to  say — I  have  got" — and  here  she  wept  with 
sobs — "nothing  to  eat,  except  the  remains  of  your  bounty." 
Suffice  it  to  say,  I  gave  her  enough  to  procure  the  necessa- 
ries for  her  family  for  two  days,  and  promised  on  the  third 
day  to  see  her  again,  and  after  commending  them  to  God  in 
prayer,  departed. 

[To  be  continued.] 


SYMPATHY. 

OH  !  wide  they  wander  from  the  path  of  truth, 
Who  paint  sympathy  with  a  brow  of  gloom ; 

Her  step  is  buoyant  with  unfading  youth, 
Her  features  radiant  with  immortal  bloom. 

In  life's  gay  morning,  when  the  crimson  tide 
Of  pleasure  dances  through  each  burning  vein, 

She  leads  with  guardian  care  her  charge  aside, 
From  the  broad  passage  to  undying  pain. 


20  SKETCHES  OF  IRISH  CHARACTER. 

And  when  the  fleeting  joys  of  time  are  past, 
And  dark  despondence  on  the  spirit  preys  : 

She  bids,  with  holy  hope,  the  sufferer  cast 
To  brighter  regions  his  confiding  gaze. 

From  slavish  fears,  from  low,  debasing  cares, 
'T  is  hers  alone,  the  sinking  soul  to  save ; 

For  her  its  sweetest  smile  creation  wears, 
For  her  no  terror  hath  the  frowning  grave. 

No,  should  this  scene  in  headlong  ruin  close, 
Each  shattered  planet  from  its  orbit  move — 

She  would  not  tremble,  for  full  well  she  knows, 
The  arm  is  near  her  of  unbounded  love. 

ANNA. 


SKETCHES  OF  IRISH  CHARACTER. 

NORAII      CLARY THE      LOVERS      BANN-OW      LASSKS. 

SITTING  under  the  shadow  of  a  fragrant  lime-tree,  that 
overhung  a  very  ancient  well ;  and,  as  the  water  fell  into 
her  pitcher,  she  was  mingling  with  it  the  tones  of  her 
"Jew's  harp,"  the  only  instrument  upon  which  Norah 
Clary  had  learned  to  play.  She  was  a  merry  maiden, 
of  "sweet  seventeen;"  a  rustic  helle,  as  well  as  a  rustic 
beauty,  and  a  "terrible  coquette;"  and,  as  she  had  what, 
in  Scotland,  they  call  a  "tocher,"  in  England,  a  "dowry," 
and  in  Ireland,  "  a  pretty  penny,"  so  it  is  scarcely  necessaty 
to  state,  in  addition,  that  she  had  a  bachelor.  Whether  the 
tune,  which  was  certainly  given  in  alto,  was,  or  was  not 
designed  as  a  summons  to  her  lover,  I  cannot  take  upon 
myself  to  say;  but  her  lips  and  fingers  had  not  been  long 
occupied,  before  her  lover  was  at  her  side.  "  We  may  as 
well  give  it  up,  Morris  Donovan,"  she  said,  somewhat 
abruptly  ;  "  look,  't  would  be  as  easy  to  twist  the  top  off  the 
great  hill  of  Howth,  as  make  father  and  mother  agree  about 
any  one  thing.  They've  been  playing  the  rule  of  contrary 
these  twenty  years;  and  it  is  not  likely  they'll  take  a  turn 
now."  "It's  mighty  hard,  so  it  is,"  replied  handsome  Mor- 
ris, "that  married  people  can't  draw  together.  Norah,  dar- 
lint!  that  wouldn't  be  the  way  with  us.  It'so^e  we'd  be 
in  heart  and  sowl,  and  an  example  of  love  and — "  "  Fol- 


SKETCHES  OF  IRISH  CHARACTER.  21 

ly,"  interrupted  the  maiden,  laughing,  "Morris,  Morns, 
we  've  quarreled  a  score  of  times  already ;  and  a  bit  of  a 
breeze  makes  life  all  the  pleasanter.  Shall  I  talk  about  the 
merry  gig  I  danced  with  Phil  Keneday;  or  repeat  what 
Mark  Dooljn  said  of  me  to  Mary  Grey  ? — eh,  Morris?" 

The  long  black  lashes  of  Norah  Clary's  bright  brown 
eyes  almost  touched  her  low,  but  delicately  penciled  brows, 
as  she  looked  archly  up  at  her  lover;  her  lip  curled  with  a 
half  playful  smile ;  but  the  glance  was  soon  withdrawn,  and 
the  maiden's  cheek  glowed  with  a  sweet  and  eloquent  blush, 
when  the  young  man  passed  his  arm  round  her  waist,  and, 
pushing  the  curls  from  her  forehead,  gazed  upon  her  with  a 
loving,  but  mournful  look. 

"Leave  joking,  now,  Norry;  God  only  knows  how  I 
love  you,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  of  emotion.  "  I  'm  yer  equal, 
as  far  as  money  goes,  and  no  young  farmer  in  the  country 
can  tell  a  better  stock  to  his  share  than  mine;  yet  I  do  not 
pretend  to  deserve  you  for  all  that,  only  I  can't  help  saying 
that  when  we  love  each  other,  (now  don't  go  to  contradict 
me,  Norry,  because  ye  've  as  good  as  owned  it  over  and  over 
again,)  and  yer  father  agreeable,  and  all,  to  think  that  yer 
mother,  just  out  of  divilment,  should  be  putting  betwixt  us, 
for  no  reason  upon  earth,  only  to  'spite'  her  lawful  hus- 
band, is  what  sets  me  mad  entirely,  and  shows  her  to  be  a 
good-for"  —  "  Stop,  Mr.  Morris,"  exclaimed  Norah,  lay- 
ing her  hand  upon  his  mouth,  so  as  effectually  to  prevent  a 
sound  escaping;  "it's  my  mother  yer  talking  of,  and  it 
would  be  ill-blood,  as  well  as  ill-bred,  to  hear  a  word  said 
against  an  own  parent.  Is  that  the  pattern  of  yer  manners, 
sir:  or  did  ye  ever  hear  me  turn  my  tongue  against  one  be- 
longing to  you?" 

"I  ask  yer' pardon,  my  own  Norah,"  he  replied  meekly, 
as  in  duty  bound;  "for  the  sake  o'  the  lamb,  we  spare  the 
sheep.  Why  not? — and  I  am  not  going  to  gainsay  that  yer 
moiher" — 

"The  least  said 's  the  soonest  mended!"  again  inter- 
rupted the  impatient  girl.  "Good  even,  Morris,  and  God 
bless  ye;  they'll  be  after  missing  me  within,  and  it's  little 
mother  thinks  where  I  am.;' 

"  Norah  above  all  the  girls  at  wake  or  pattern,  I'm  true 


23  SKETCHES  OF  IRISH  CHARACTER. 

to  you.  We  have  grown  together,  and,  since  ye  were  the 
height  of  a  rose-bush,  ye  have  been  dearer  to  me  than  any- 
thing else  on  earth.  Do,  Norah,  for  the  sake  of  your  young 
heart's  love,  do,  think,  if  there 's  no  way  to  win  yer  mother 
over.  If  ye  'd  take  me  without  her  leave,  shure  it 's  nothing 
I  'd  care  for  the  loss  of  thousands ;  let  alone  what  ye  've  got. 
Dearest  Norah,  think;  since  ye '11  do  nothing  without  her 
consent,  do  think — for  once  be  serious,  and  don't  laugh." 

It  is  a  fact  universally  known  and  credited,  in  the  good 
barony  of  Bargy,  that  Morris  Donovan  possessed  an  honest 
heart,  brave  as  a  lion,  gentle  as  a  dove.  He  was,  moreover, 
the  priest's  nephew — understood  Latin  as  well  as  the  priest 
himself:  and  better  even  than  that,  he  was  the  lion — the 
magnus-apollo,  of  the  parish; — a  fine,  noble  looking  fellow, 
that  all  the  girls,  (from  the  housekeeper's  lovely  English 
niece,  at  Lord  Goth's,  down  to  a  little  deaf  Bess  Mortican, 
the  lame  dress-maker,)  were  regularly  and  desperately  in 
love  with  him.  Still,  I  must  confess,  he  was  at  times  a  lit- 
tle stupid;  not  exactly  stupid  either,  but  slow  of  invention; 
would  fight  his  way  out  of  a  thousand  scrapes,  but  could 
never  get  peaceably  out  of  one.  No  wonder,  then,  that 
where  fighting  was  out  of  the  question,  he  was  puzzled, 
and  looked  to  the  ready  wit  of  the  merry  Norah  for  assist- 
ance. It  was  not  very  extraordinary  that  he  loved  the 
fairy  creature,  the  sweetest,  gayest  of  all  Irish  girls; — 
light  of  heart,  light  of  foot,  light  of  eye, — now  weeping  like 
a  child  over  a  dead  chicken,  or  a  plundered  nest ;  then  danc- 
ing on  the  top  of  a  hay-rick,  to  the  music  of  her  own  cheer- 
ing voice;  now  coaxing  her  termagant  mother,  and  anon 
comforting  her  hen-pecked  father.  Let  no  one  suppose  I 
have  overdrawn  the  sketch  of  my  Bannow  lass — for,  although 
her  native  barony  is  that  of  Bargy,  the  two  may  be  consid- 
ered as  wedded  and  become  one.  The  portraits  appended 
to  this  story,  are  at  least  veritable  and  from  the  life.  You 
will  encounter  such,  and  such  only,  in  our  district,  neatly 
attired,  with  their  white  caps,  when  the  day  is  too  warm  for 
bonnets;  in  short,  altogether  well-dressed. 

"I  'm  not  going  to  laugh,  Morris,"  replied  the  little  maid, 
at  last,  after  a  very  long  pause;  "I've  got  a  wise  thought 
in  my  head,  for  once.  His  reverence,  your  uncle,  you 


SKETCHES  OF  IRISH  CHARACTER.  23 

say,  spoke  to  father,  to  speak  to  mother  about  it?  I  wonder 
(and  he  a  priest)  that  he  hadn't  more  sense  !  Sure,  mother 
was  the  man ;  but  I  've  got  a  wise  thought — good  night, 
dear  Morris,  good  night." 

The  lass  sprang  lightly  over  the  fence,  into  her  own,  leav- 
ing her  lover  perdu  at  the  other  side,  without  possessing  an 
idea  of  what  her  "  wise  thought "  might  be.  When  she 
entered  the  kitchen,  matters  were  going  on  as  usual,  her 
mother  bustling  in  style,  and  as  cross  "  as  a  bag  of  weasels." 

"Jack  Clary,"  said  she,  addressing  herself  to  her  hus- 
band, who  sat  quietly  in  the  chimney  corner,  smoking  his 
doodeen,  "  it 's  well  you  've  got  a  wife  who  knows  what 's 
what.  God  help  me,  I  've  little  good  of  a  husband,  barring 
the  name?  Are  ye  sure  black  Nell's  in  the  stable?  The 
sposo  nodded.  The  cow  and  the  calf,  had  they  fresh  straw  ?" 
Another  nod.  "  Bad  cess  to  ye,  can't  ye  use  yer  tongue,  and 
answer  a  civil  question  ?"  continued  the  lady. 

"  My  dear,"  he  replied,  "  sure  one  like  you  has  talk 
enough  for  ten."  This  very  just  observation  was,  like  most 
ttuth,  so  disagreeable,  that  a  severe  storm  would  have  fol- 
lowed, had  not  Norah  stepped  up  to  her  father,  and  whis- 
pered in  his  ear,  "I  don't  think  the  stable  door  is  fastened." 
Mrs.  Clary  caught  the  sound,  and  in  no  gentle  terms,  ordered 
her  husband  to  attend  to  the  comforts  of  Black  Nell.  "I'll 
go  with  father  myself,  and  see,"  said  Norah.  "That's 
like  my  own  child,  always  careful ;"  observed  the  mother, 
as  the  father  and  daughter  closed  the  door. 

"  Dear  father,"  began  Norah,  "  it  isn't  altogether  about  the 
stable  I  wanted  ye — but — but — the  priest  said  something  to 
ye  to-day  about  Morris  Donovan."  ''Yes,  darling,  and 
about  yerself,  my  sweet  Norry.  Did  ye  speak  to  mother 
about  it?" 

"No,  darling,  she's  been  so  cross  all  day.  Sure,  I  go 
through  a  dale  for  peace  and  quietness.  If  I  was  like  other 
men,  and  got  drunk,  and  wasted,  it  might  be  in  reason;  but, 
as  to  Morris,  she  was  very  fond  of  the  boy,  until  she  thought 
/liked  him ;  and  then,  my  jewel,  she  turned  like  sour  milk, 
all  in  a  minute.  I'm  afraid  the  priest '11  get  no  good — no 
good  of  her." 

"  Father,  dear  father,"  said  Norah,  "suppose  ye  were  to 


24  SKETCHES  OF  IRISH  CHARACTER. 

say  nothing  of  it,  good  or  bad,  and  just  pretend  to  take  a 
sudden  dislike  to  Morris,  and  let  the  priest  speak  to  her  him- 
self, she'd  come  round."  "Out  of  opposition  to  me,  eh?" 
"Yes."  "And  let  her  gain  the  day,  then?  that  would  be 
cowardly,"  replied  the  father,  drawing  himself  up.  "No,  I 
won't."  "Father,  dear,  you  don't  understand,"  said  the 
cunning  lass,  "sure,  ye 're  for  Morris;  and  when  we  are — 
that  is,  if — I  mean — suppose — father,  you  know  what  I 
mean,"  she  continued,  and  luckily  the  twilight  concealed 
her  blushes — "if  that  took  place,  it's  you.  that  would  have 
yer  own  way." 

"I'm  for  ye,  Norry,  my  girl,  true  for  ye;  I  never  thought 
of  that  before;"  and,  pleased  with  the  idea  of  trickin-g  his 
"wife,"  the  old  man  fairly  capered  for  joy.  "But,  stay 
awhile — stay,  asy,  asy!"  he  recommenced,  "how  am  I  to 
manage?  Sure,  the  priest  himself  will  be  here  himself  to- 
morrow morning  early  ;  and  he's  out  upon  a  station  now — 
so  there  is  no  speaking  with  him  ;  he 's  no  way  quick,  either, 
we'll  be  bothered  entirely,  if  he  comes  in  of  a  suddent." 

"  Leave  it  to  me,  dear  father,  leave  it  all  to  me,"  exclaim 
ed  the  animated  girl;  "only  pluck  up  a  spirit,  and  when- 
ever Morris'  name  is  mentioned,  abuse  him,  but  not  with  all 
yer  heart,  father,  only  from  the  teeth  out."  When  they  reen- 
tered,  the  fresh-boiled  potatoes  sent  a  warm,  curling  steam, 
to  the  very  rafters  of  the  lofty  kitchen;  they  were  poured 
out  into  a  large  wicker  dish,  and,  on  the  top  of  the  pile 
rested  a  plate  of  coarse  white  salt;  noggins  were  filled 
with  buttermilk  on  the  dresser;  and,  on  a  small  round 
table,  a  cloth  was  spread,  and  some  delf  plates  awaited 
the  more  delicate  repast  which  the  farmer's  wife  was  her- 
self preparing.  "What's  for  supper,  mother?  What  for 
supper,  mother?"  inquired  Norah,  as  she  drew  her  wheel 
towards  her,  and  employed  her  fairy  foot  in  whirling  it 
round.  "  Plaguy  snipecns"  she  replied ;  "  bits  o1  bog  chick- 
ens, that  you've  always  a  fancy  for.  Barney  Leary  kilt 
them  himself."  " So  I  did,"  said  Barney,  grinning;  "and 
that  stick  wid  a  hook,  of  Morris  Donovan's,  is  the  finest 
thing  in  the  world  for  knocking 'em  down."  "If  Morris 
Donovan's  stick  touched  them,  they  shan't  come  here," 
said  the  farmer,  striking  the  poor  little  table  such  a  blow 


SKETCHES  OF  IRISH  CHARACTER.  25 

with  his  clenched  hand,  as  made  not  only  it3  but  Mrs.  Clary 
jump. 

"And  why  so,  pray?"  asked  the  dame. 

"Because,  nothing  belonging  to  Morris,  (let  alone  Morris 
himself.)  shall  come  into  this  house,"  replied  Clary;  "he's 
not  to  my  liking  any  how,  and  there 's  no  good  in  his  both- 
ering here  after  what  he  won't  get." 

"  Excellent !"  thought  Norah. 

"Lord  save  us!"  ejaculated  Mrs.  Clary,  as  she  placed 
the  grilled  snipes  on  the  table,  "  what 's  come  to  the  man?" 

Without  heeding  his  resolution,  she  was  proceeding  to 
distribute  the  savory  "  birdeens,"  when,  to  her  astonish- 
ment, her  usually  tame  husband  threw  the  dish  and  its  con- 
tents into  the  flames;  the  good  wife  stood  absolutely  aghast 
for  a  moment.  The  calm,  however,  was  of  short  du- 
ration. She  soon  rallied,  and  commenced  hostilities.  "  How 
dare  you,  ye  spalpeen,  throw  away  any  of  God's  mate  after 
that  fashion,  and  I  to  the  fore  ?  What  do  you  mane,  I  say  ?" 
"  I  mane  that  nothing  tutched  by  Morris  Donovan  shall 
come  under  this  ruff;  and  if  I  catch  that  girl  o'  mine  looking 
the  same  side  of  the  road  he  walks  on,  I  '11  tear  the  eyes 
out  of  her  head,  and  send  her  to  a  nunnery  !" 

"  You,  will  !  and  dare  you  to  say  that  to  my  face,  to  a 
child  o' mine  !  you  will — will  you!  we'll  see,  my  boy. 
I  '11  tell  you  what,  if  /  like,  Morris  Donovan  shall  come  into 
this  house  ;  and  what  ;s  more,  be  master  of  this  house ;  and 
that 's  what  you  never  had  the  heart  to  be  yet,  ye  poor  ould 
snail!"  So  saying,  Mrs.  Clary  endeavored  to  rescue  from 
the  fire,  the  hissing  remains  of  the  burning  snipes.  Norah 
attempted  to  assist  her  mother;  but  Clary,  lifting  her  up 
somewhat  after  the  fashion  of  an  eagle  raising  a  golden 
wren  with  its  claw,  fairly  put  her  out  of  the  kitchen.  .  This 
was  the  signal  for  fresh  hostilities.  Mrs.  Clary  stormed 
and  stamped,  and  Mr.  Clary  persisted  in  abusing,  not  only 
Morris,  but  Morris'  uncle,  Father  Donovan,  until  at  last  the 
farmer's  help-mate  swore,  aye,  and  roundly  too,  by  cross 
and  saint,  that  before  the  next  sun-set,  Norah  Clary  should 
be  Norah  Donovan.  I  wish  you  could  have  seen  Norry's 
eye,  dancing  with  joy  and  exultation,  as  it  peeped  through 
the  latch-hole ;  it  sparkled  more  brightly  than  the  richest 


26  SKETCHES  OF  IRISH  CHARACTER. 

diamond  in  our  monarch's  crown,  for  it  was  filled  with 
hope  and  love. 

The  next  morning,  before  the  sun  was  fully  up,  he  was 
throwing  his  early  beams  over  the  glowing  cheek  of  Norah 
Clary;  for  her  "wise  thought"  had  prospered,  and  she  was 
hastening  to  the  try  sting-tree,  where,  "  by  chance,"  either 
morning  or  evening,  she  met  Morris  Donovan.  I  don't 
know  how  it  is,  but  the  moment  the  course  of  true  love 
"runs  smooth,"  it  becomes  very  uninteresting,  except  to 
the  parties  concerned.  So  it  is  now  left  for  me  only  to  say, 
that  the  maiden,  after  a  due  and  proper  time,  consumed  in 
teasing  and  tantalizing  her  intended,  told  him  her  saucy 
plan,  and  its  result.  And  the  lover  hastened  upon  the 
wings  of  love,  (which  I  beg  my  readers  clearly  to  under- 
stand, are  swifter  and  stronger  in  Ireland  than  in  any 
other  country,)  to  apprize  the  priest  of  the  arrangement,  well 
knowing  that  his  reverence  loved  his  nephew,  and  niece 
that  was  to  be,  (to  say  nothing  of  the  wedding-supper,  and 
the  profits  arising  therefrom,)  too  well,  not  to  aid  their  merry 
jest.  What  bustle,  what  preparation,  what  feasting,  what 
dancing,  gave  the  country  folk  enough  to  talk  about  during 
the  happy  Christmas  holidays,  I  cannot  now  describe.  The 
bride,  of  course,  looked  lovely  and  "sheepish;"  and  the 
bridegroom — but  bridegrooms  are  always  uninteresting. 
One  fact,  however,  is  worth  recording.  When  Father 
Donovan  concluded  the  ceremony,  before  the  bridal  kiss 
had  passed,  Farmer  Clary,  without  any  reason  that  his 
wife  could  discover,  most  indecorously  sprang  up,  seized  a 
shelilah  of  stout  oak,  and  said,  "We've  won  the  day! — 
Ould  Ireland  forever !  Success,  my  boys  !  She  's  beat — 
she's  beat!"  The  priest,  too,  seemed  vastly  to  enjoy  this 
extemporaneous  effusion,  and  even  the  bride  laughed  out- 
right. Whether  the  good  wife  discovered  the  plot  or  not,  I 
never  heard ;  but  of  this  I  am  certain,  that  the  joyous  Norah 
never  had  reason  to  repent  her  "  wise  thought." — Sketches 
of  Irish  Character,  by  Mrs.  S.  C.  H. 


THE    DYING   YEAR.  27 

THE  DYING  YEAR. 

BY   MRS.      L.      H.      SIGOURNEY. 

VOICE  of  the  dying  year !  I  hear  thy  moan, 

Like  some  spent  breaker  of  the  distant  sea, 

Chafing  the  fretted  rocks.     Is  this  the  end 

Of  thy  fresh  morning  music,  gushing  out 

In  promises  of  hope  ?     Have  the  bright  flash 

Of  spring's  young  beauty,  crown'd  with  budding  flowers, 

The  passion  now  of  summer,  and  the  pledge 

Of  faithful,  fruitful  autumn,  come  to  this? 

I  see  thy  youngling  moon  go  down  the  west, 

The  midnight  clock  gives  warning,  and  its  stroke 

Must  be  thy  death-knell.     In  that  quivering  gasp 

The  last  sad  utterance  of  thine  agony, 

I  see  thy  clay-cold  fingers  try  to  clasp 

Some  prop — in  vain. 

And  so  thou  art  no  more. 
No  more  !     Thy  rest  is  with  oblivion's  years 
Beyond  the  flood.     Yet  when  the  trump  shall  sound, 
Blown  by  the  strong  archangel,  thou  shalt  wake 
From  the  dim  sleep  of  ages.     When  the  tombs, 
That  lock  their  slumbering  tenants,  cleave  in  twain, 
Thou  shalt  come  forth.     Yea,  thou  shalt  rise  again, 
And  I  shall  look  upon  thee,  when  the  dead 
Stand  before  God.     But  come  not  murmuring  forth, 
Unwillingly,  like  Samuel's  summoned  ghost, 
To  daunt  me  at  the  judgment.     No  ;  be  kind, 
Be  pitiful,  bear  witness  tenderly  ; 
And  if  thou  hast  a  dread  account  for  me, 
Go,  dip  thy  dark  scroll  in  redeeming  blood. 


MEZZOTINTO. 

PRINCE  Rupert,  nephew  to  Charles  the  First,  who  devoted 
himself  much  to  the  prosecution  of  chemical  and  philosoph- 
ical experiments,  as  well  as  the  practice  of  mechanic  arts, 
for  which  he  was  famous,  was  the  inventor  of  mezzotinto. 
of  which  he  is  said  to  have  taken  the  hint  from  a  soldier 
scraping  his  rusty  fusil.  The  prince,  going  out  one  morn- 
ing, observed  a  sentinel  at  some  distance  from  his  post,  very 
ousy  doing  something  to  his  piece.  The  prince  inquired 


28  MARRIAGE   IN   LAPLAND. 

what  he  was  about.  He  replied  that  the  dew  had  fallen  in 
the  night,  and  made  his  fusil  rusty,  and  therefore  he  was 
scraping  and  cleaning  it.  The  prince,  looking  at  it,  was 
struck  with  .something  like  a  figure  eaten  into  the  barrel, 
with  innumerable  little  holes,  closed  together  like  frieze- 
work  on  gold  and  silver,  part  of  which  the  soldier  had 
scraped  away.  From  this  trifling  incident,  Prince  Rupert 
conceived  the  idea  of  mezzotinto.  He  concluded  that  some 
contrivance  might  be  found  to  cover  a  brass  plate  with  such 
a  grained  ground,  of  fine-pressed  holes,  as  would  undoubt- 
edly give  an  impression  all  black,  and  that  by  scraping 
away  proper  parts,  the  smooth  superfices  would  leave  the  rest 
of  the  paper  white.  Communicating  his  ideas  to  Wallerant 
Vaillant,  a  painter,  they  made  several  experiments,  and  at 
last  invented  a  steel  roller,  cut  with  tools  to  make  a  file  or 
rasp,  with  projecting  points,  which  effectually  produced  the 
black  grounds;  these  being  scraped  away  and  diminished 
at  pleasure,  left  the  gradations  of  light.  It  is  said  that  the 
first  mezzotinto  print  ever  published,  was  engraved  by  the 
prince  himself.  It  may  be  seen  in  the  first  edition  of 
Evelyn's  Sculptura;  and  there  is  a  copy  of  it  in  the  second 
edition,  printed  in  1755.  OLIO. 


MARRIAGE  IN   LAPLAND. 

IT  is  death  in  Lapland  to  marry  a  rnaid  without  the  con- 
sent of  her  parents  or  friends.  When  a  young  man  has 
formed  an  attachment  to  a  female,  the  fashion  is,  to  appoint 
their  friends  to  meet  to  behold  the  two  young  parties  run  a 
race  together.  The  maid  is  allowed  in  starting,  the  advan- 
tage of  a  third  part  of  the  race,  so  that  it  is  impossible, 
except  willing  of  herself,  that  she  should  be  overtaken.  If 
the  maid  overrun  her  suitor,  the  matter  is  ended;  he  must 
never  have  her,  it  being  penal  for  the  man  to  renew  the 
motion  of  marriage.  But  if  the  virgin  has  an  affection  for 
him,  though  at  first  she  runs  hard,  to  try  the  truth  of  his 
love,  she  will  (without  Atalanta's  golden  balls  to  retard 
her  speed)  pretend  some  casualty,  and  make  a  voluntary 
halt  before  she  cometh  to  the  mark,  or  end  of  the  race. 
Thus  none  are  compelled  to  marry  against  their  own  will; 


EDITORIAL.  29 

and  this  is  the  cause  that,  in  this  poor  country,  the  married 
people  are  richer  in  their  own  contentment  than  in  other 
lands,  where  so  many  forced  matches  make  feigned  love, 
and  cause  real  unhappiness. 

".jvoi     l)R\  airf'lo  tewt  srfJ  oJ 


EDITORIAL. 

;  ..•'.,:;,  !.;l)  <-.£  bin' 

IN  offering  to  the  public  a  new  periodical,  we  are  not 
altogether  unadvised  of  the  reception  which  its  first  debut 
may  meet  with.  Some  will  start  back,  and  say,  "What, 
another  book?  The  world  is  flooded  with  books  already." 
Whilst  others,  who,  in  their  reading,  keep  pace  with  the 
literature  of  the  day,  will  greet  it  with  a  hearty  welcome. 
Such  make  suitable  selections,  and  separate  the  precious 
from  the  vile,  casting  aside  the  trashy,  chaffy  pamphlets 
that  meet  us  on  almost  every  corner  of  our  streets  ;  they 
find  time,  and-  take  a  pleasure  in  perusing  the  more  senti- 
mental works  of  the  day,  by  which  to  gain  valuable  instruc- 
tion, and  improve  their  moral  sentiments. 

In  conducting  this  magazine,  we  shall  endeavor  to  com- 
bine utility  with  amusement,  and  such  are  our  facilities  and 
prospects,  that  we  enter  the  literary  arena  confident  of  suc- 
cess. 

The  fields  which  we  shall  explore,  are  full  of  beautiful 
and  fragrant  flowers;  they  are  spread  out  with  splendid 
scenery,  which  cannot  fail  to  interest  our  fair  readers;  draw 
from  them  the  smile  of  approbation,  and  make  them  cheer- 
fully part  with  "  the  almighty  dollar  "  to  enjoy  their  Elysian 
pleasures. 

We  have  christened  it  with  the  name  of  "  Magnolia,  or 
Young  Lady's  Azalia,"  and  intend,  as  far  as  practicable, 
to  make  it  answer  the  character  which  its  imposed  name 
indicates.  Our  fair  readers  will  recollect  that  the  Magno- 
lia is  a  tree,  "  peerless  and  proud,  with  rich,  smooth  foliage, 
large,  fragrant  flowers,  and  aromatic  bark.  Some  of  them 
are  of  a  very  exalted  stature,  taking  rank  with  the  highest 
tenants  of  the  wood.  In  the  southern  states,  whole  groves 
of  the  magnificent  magnolia  grandiflora  are  found,  scenting 
the  air  for  miles  around,  with  their  rich  and  delicious  fra- 


30 

grance.  The  large,  white  leaf  of  the  flower  often  serves  the 
romantic  southern  youth  for  paper.  He  pricks  upon  it  with 
a  needle  or  pin  the  passionate  thoughts  of  his  heart,  and 
commits  his  perfumed  billet-doux  to  the  care  of  Zephyr,  to 
be  wafted  to  the  feet  of  his  lady  love." 

"  We  pluck  the  leaf  of  perfumed  snow, 

We  trace  love-verses  on  it ; 
And  as  the  quick  thoughts  breathe  and  glow, 

The  flower  makes  sweet  the  sonnet ! 

We  tell  the  maid  it  mocks,  in  hue, 

Her  fair  and  virgin  forehead  ; 
We  say  her  lips'  delicious  dew 

The  blossom's  balm  hath  borrowed. 

Our  sweet  appeal,  in  secret  bower, 

We  bid  her  con  apart, 
And  trace  it  on  as  fair  a  flower-— 

Her  own  unsullied  heart. 

*T  is  Writ  with  plumes  from  Cupid's  wing— • 

With  passion's  kiss  we  seal  it, 
Then  free  to  zephyr's  care  we  fling 

Our  light  and  blooming  billet !" 

The  "Azalia"  is  an  exceedingly  beautiful  shrub,  with 
rose-colored  flowers,  and  which,  on  beholding,  we  involun- 
tarily exclaim,  "your  blush  has  won  me."  Not,  indeed, 
the  blush  of  guilt  and  shame,  but,— 

"  Playful  blushes,  that  seem  naught 
But  luminous  escapes  of  thought." 

While,  therefore,  you  have  our  name,  and  its  import,  you 
shall  also,  with  the  utmost  frankness,  have  our  sentiments  ; 
and  while  we  would  be  modest  and  unassuming  in  our  style, 
we  hope  not  to  offend  the  most  refined  and  delicate  taste  of 
our  readers,  or  meet  with  the  reprobation  of  those  who  make 
sound  sense  their  criterion  by  which  to  judge  of  the  merits 
of  a  literary  work. 

We  trust  these  principles  will  not  be  supplanted  in  the 
minds  of  the  reader,  if  we  occasionally  lead  her, — 

"  By  dimpled  brook  and  fountain  brim, 
The  wood-nymphs  decked  with  daisies  trim, 
Their  merry  wakes  and  pastimes  keep," 


EDITORIAL.  31 

but  will  ensure  her  admiration  and  esteem,  which  are  the 
sure  guarantees  of  our  success. 

The  embellishments  with  which  our  work  shall  be  orna- 
mented, we  hope,  while  they  may  please  the  eye,  will  add 
instruction  to  the  mind. 

Again,  we  shall  select  our  contributors  from  the  best,  and 
most  popular  writers  of  the  day,  whose  moral  worth,  natu- 
ral genius,  vivid  imagination,  and  acquired  excellences, 
shall  command  respect  and  admiration. 

Finally,  we  hope  that  "The  Magnolia,"  &c.,  will  be  of  a 
character  that  will  commend  itself  to  the  good  taste,  and 
common  sense  of  its  readers.  It  will  be  devoted  to  moral, 
polite,  and  entertaining  literature.  It  will  contain  original 
and  selected  tales,  essays,  historical  sketches,  interesting 
biographies,  records  of  travel,  scientific  and  physiological 
facts,  and  extracts  from  new  and  popular  works. 

In  setting  before  the  reader  such  a  variety,  we  labor  to 
gain  the  merit,  at  least,  of  calling  the  attention  to  subjects 
which  must  interest,  and  secure  a  reading  from  most  of  our 
patrons. 

With  these  preliminaries,  we  now  launch  our  little  craft 
upon  the  wave.  Whether  she  is  destined  to  meet  with 
storm  or  calm,  we,  of  course,  are  not  allowed  to  divine. 
She  is,  however,  launched  on  the  sea,  at  the  mercy  of  the 
popular  gale,  which,  adverse  or  favorable,  may  assail  her. 
We  trust  she  will  gallantly  ride  upon  the  wave,  head  her 
way  onward,  fair  and  beautiful,  and  that  the  smiles  of  ten 
thousand  subscribers  will  encourage  our  labors,  and  gladden 
our  heart.  Already, — 

"  Fair  hope,  with  light  and  buoyant  form, 
Comes  smiling  through  the  clouds  of  care, 

Glances  bright  defiance  on  the  storm, 
And  hangs  her  bow  of  promise  there." 

Our  next  number  will  appear  early  in  January,  and  our 
patrons  may  be  assured  that  they  will  receive  their  num- 
bers promptly, 


i 


(Cfjdsttan  Otontort's 

Words  by  Rev.  S.  Hoyt.  Tune,  The  Rose  that  all  ai  e  praising. 


1.  The  pearl  that  worldlings  covet,  is  not  the  pearl     for 


Its 


beauty  fades  as  quickly,    As      sunshine  on    the      sea;  But  there's  a  pearl  sought 


z*zz*z±:f     irtfiiirfzatafcat 

LJ  —  i  ----  1  ------- 


j — *»-H— <T~H — i^-f^-^rH — ^— i-^ 
i — — J-«-J-iH — -zw-2-H — M — i 

i-ai'-ai«»-Sf^- i F-»4-^-J-ad--l 


K— «--— «*-J~?K_-,1 

me,         O,  that's  the  pearl  for         me,     O,        that's  the    pearl     for         me! 


_.) i 1 -I 1 1 ._| «*— i-i 1 — - 

— tf— 

— ^ — I 0* — LJ 1 ^ — I i_l 1 — • — 


The  crown  that  decks  the  monarch 

Is  not  the  crown  for  me; 
It  dazzles  but  a  moment, 

Its  brightness  soon  will  flee; 
But  there's  a  crown  prepared  above 

For  all  who  walk  in  humble  love. 
Forever  bright  'twill  be. 

O,  that's  the  crown  for  me,  &e 


3   The  road  that  many  travel 

Is  not  the  road  for  me; 
It  leads  to  death  and  sorrow, 

In  it  I  would  not  he; 
But  there's  a  road  that  leads  to  God, 
It's  marked  by  Christ's  most  precious  blood: 
The  passage  here  is  free. 

0,  that's  the  road  for  me,  &c. 


4.  The  hope  that  sinners  cherish 

Is  not  the  hope  for  me; 
Most  surely  will  they  perish, 
Unless  f^m  sin  made  free; 
But  there's  a  hope  which  rests  in  God, 
And  leads  the  soul  to  keep  his  word 
And  sinful  pleasures  flee. 
0,  that's  the  hope  for  me,  &c. 


FLOWEK  OF  CONSOLATION. 

CHERISH  this  flower  !  is  it  not, 
Bright  comer  in  adversity, 
Like  one  who  braves  a  stormy  lot, 
To  bear  the  torch  of  Hope  to  thee  1 

L.  H. 


I  SEND  YOU  A  MESSAGE  OF  LOVE  ON  THE  WINGS  OF  HOPE. 

FOND  Love,  who  lives  in  my  heart  for  thee, 
Had  a  message  this  morning  he  wanted  to  send, 
While  Fear,  who  will  ever  beside  him  be, 
Cried — "  Better  beware,  my  friend  !" 

But  then,  sweet  Memory  awoke  awhile, 
And  softly  she  told  in  Love's  true  ear 
Of  a  certain  bewitching  and  eloquent  smile, 
Which  you  have  forgotten,  I  fear  ! 

Young  Hope,  who  was  listening,  caught  the  sound ; 

All  beaming  with  light,  she  flew  to  Love i 

"  Oh !  round  my  wings,  be  your  billet-doux  bound, 
And  I  '11  be  your  carrier-dove  !" 

'T  was  done — Hope  went — (she  knows  the  way 
By  heart,  for  she  's  travelled  it  oft  ere  now) — 
Ah  send  her  back  to  me,  sweet,  I  pray, 
With  the  same  unclouded  brow. 

She  will  furl,  at  your  feet,  her  weary  wing, 

And  oh !  if  the  billet  she  beajrs  be  fled, 

Think  that  must  have  followed  and  loosened  the  string, 

And  just  guess  all  that  Love  would  have  said. 

F.  S.  0. 
3 


34  REMINISCENCES    OF   A   PASTOR. 


REMINISCENCES  OF  A  PASTOR. 

[Continued.] 

AT  the  appointed  time,  I  called  again  to  see  Mrs.  W.  I 
was  received  almost  as  an  angel  of  God.  The  children 
seemed  ecstatic.  Poor  little  Mary  smiled  in  tears.  The 
mother's  countenance  appeared  much  brightened  since  our 
last  interview.  On  my  former  visit  I  had  hardly  noticed 
the  room  and  its  fixtures,  my  mind  was  so  much  occupied 
with  its  inmates.  But  now  I  took  a  full  survey  of  it.  There 
were  but  few  things  in  it,  but  those  were  well  adjusted,  and 
everything  looked  tidy  and  neat.  After  the  usual  saluta- 
tions concerning  health,  &c.,  I  told  Mrs.  W.  that  I  had  a 
special  request  to  make,  which  I  should  ask  as  a  favor,  and 
that  was,  that  she  would  give  me  a  brief  history  of  herselfr 
including  her  misfortunes.  For  I  thought  that  possibly 
there  might  be  some  peculiarity  in  her  case,  which  would 
be  interesting  to  know.  I  did  not  desire  her  to  reveal  any 
family  secrets  that  belonged  exclusively  to  the  persons  con- 
cerned ;  but  principally  the  causes  of  her  present  depression. 
I  assured  her  that  if  she  saw  fit  to  accede  to  my  request. 
I  should  make  no  use  of  the  details  either  to  her  disadvan- 
tage, or  any  others  who  might  in  any  way  be  implicated. 

Mrs.  W.  was  silent  for  a  few  moments,  as  if  in  deep 
thought.  Her  heart  seemed  to  be  burthened  as  with  a  load 
of  grief  and  anguish.  At  length  she  spoke.  "I  am  glad, 
sir,  that  you  have  made  this  request.  It  will  be  a  relief  to 
me  to  answer  your  inquiries.  You  are  the  first  person  who 
has  ever  asked  me  the  question.  I  have  to  this  hour  kept 
my  troubles  shut  up  in  my  own  heart,  and  endured  all  their 
corroding  influence  without  a  single  sympathizing  friend  to 
hear  my  story,  or  share  in  my  troubles.  The  confidence 
which  I  have  in  your  piety  as  a  Christian  minister,  makes 
me  perfectly  free  to  spread  before  you  my  whole  case,  just 
as  it  is.  I  will  not  exaggerate  on  the  one  hand,  nor  be 
reserved  on  the  other.'' 

"I  am  pleased,  Mrs.  W.,  with  your  frankness,  and  if  you 
do  not  object,  you  will  oblige  me  if  you  begin  with  your 


REMINISCENCES   OF   A   PASTOR.  35 

birth  and  parentage,  and  so  give  me  a  brief  sketch  of  your 
life  to  the  present  time." 

"As  to  the  first  sixteen  years  of  rny  life  there  are  no  par- 
ticular incidents  of  interest  to  relate,  and  therefore  all  1  have 
to  say  of  that  period  may  be  soon  told. 

"  I  was  born  about  twenty  miles  from  this  city,  in  T . 

My  father's  name  was  J C .  He  was  a  merchant 

and  farmer,  a  man  of  considerable  property,  and  much  re- 
spected among  his  fellow-townsmen.  He  was  an  exem- 
plary, pious,  and  active  member  of church,  and  con- 
tinued to  be  so  until  he  died,  which  occurred  about  two 
years  after  my  marriage.  My  mother  died  when  I  was 
very  young.  I  scarcely  remember  her.  But  I  am  told  that 

she  was  an  estimable  woman,  and  died,  as  she  lived — a 

'  * 

devoted  Christian.  My  father  never  married  again.  He 
used  often  to  say,  when  speaking  of  second  marriages,  '  I 
have  one  wife  in  heaven,  and  I  want  none  upon  earth.  I 
never  shall  marry  again.  The  thought  of  meeting  my  de- 
parted wife  where  we  shall  part  no  more,  yields  me  more 
solid  enjoyment  than  any  wife  could  do  upon  earth.'  He 
never  could  speak  of  my  own  dear  mother  but  with  tears. 
I  remember  that  he  often  would  silently  gaze  upon  me  for 
some  minutes,  and  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  would  say,  '  Mary, 
your  mother  has  gone  to  heaven,  but  she  has  left  her  fac- 
simile behind  her  in  you.  In  seeing  you  I  sometimes  feel 
that  your  mother  has  almost  come  back  again  to  earth. 
Here  is  her  own  sweet  image.  No  wonder  she  loved  you. 
Her  last  moments  were  spent  in  commending  you  to  her 
Heavenly  Father.  Live,  my  child,  so  that  you  may  meet 
her  in  heaven.' 

"My  mother  had  but  three  children;  one  son,  and  two 
daughters.  I  am  the  youngest.  My  brother  and  sister  are 
both  married,  and  settled.  My  brother  in  one  of  our  south- 
ern cities,  and  my  sister  in  the  far-off  west.  They  are  both 
said  to  be  wealthy.  If  they  knew  of  my  situation  they 
would  afford  me  prompt  and  timely  aid ;  but  I  have  cau- 
tiously avoided  all  communications  with  them  for  the  last 
eighteen  months.  For  the  want  of  funds,  I  have  not  been 
to  the  post-office,  to  see  if  there  are  any  letters  for  me.  You 


36  REMINISCENCES    OF    A    PASTOR. 

may  think  strange  of  this,  but  in  the  sequel  of  my  history, 
you  will  see  the  reasons  for  this  course. 

"  My  husband's  name  was  Samuel  W .  He  was 

born  and  brought  up  in  this  city.  He  was  an  only  son,  and 
became  an  orphan  when  very  young.  Of  course  he  heired 
all  his  father's  estate,  which  was  very  considerable.  Not 
having  parental  authority  to  guide  his  steps  while  young, 
he  was  indulged  and  gratified  in  almost  all  his  wishes. 
Being  wealthy,  he  was  flattered,  and  allowed  plenty  of 
money,  before  his  judgment  was  sufficiently  matured  to 
know  how  to  take  care  of  it.  The  consequence  was,  that 
he  never  learned  how  to  acquire  property  ;  but  early  acquired 
the  habits  of  a  spendthrift.  He  was  naturally  bright,  intel- 
ligent, and  exceedingly  prepossessing  in  his  manners,  and 
personal  appearance.  He  was  well  educated,  and  notwith- 
standing his  predisposition  to  dissipation,  graduated  at  one 
of  our  universities  with  honor. 

j 'Mr.  W.  moved  in  the  gayest  circles,  and  his  presence 
was  everywhere  courted,  and  hailed  with  delight  by  such 
society,  wherever  he  was  known.  He  was  emphatically  a 
man  of  pleasure,  and  the  pursuits  of  its  giddy  rounds  con- 
stituted his  whole  business. 

"I  first  saw  Mr.  W.  while  attending  a  boarding-school  in 
this  city.  I  was  then  only  fifteen  years  old.  It  was  at  a 
wedding  party.  He  paid  me  special  attention  that  evening, 
and  expressed  in  strong  terms  the  happiness  it  would  afford 
him  to  see  me  again.  After  this,  our  interviews  became 
frequent,  and  I  had  reason  to  believe  our  attachment  mu- 
tual. I  remained  in  the  city  six  months,  and  then  returned 
home  to  my  father's,  soon  after  which  Mr.  W.  came  to  see 
me.  My  brother  had  heard  of  him,  though  he  had  no  per- 
sonal acquaintance  with  him,  and  he  utterly  despised  him. 
To  use  his  own  words,  '  I  have  heard  no  good  of  him.' 
He  accordingly  entreated  me  to  dismiss  him  at  once;  said 
he  was  an  idle,  dissolute,  pleasure-taking  young  man.  It 
was  true  that  he  was  wealthy.  Bat  how  long  will  he  re- 
main so;  and  when  his  money  is  gone,  what  will  he  be 
good  for?  He  will  be  hurled  out  of  society,  and  become  a 
poor,  miserable  wretch ;  and  what  then  would  become  of 
you,  should  you  join  your  destinies  with  his? 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A    PASTOR.  37 

"  At  this  discourse,  I  confess  that  I  was  highly  incensed. 
My  affections  were  too  strongly  riveted  to  him  to  be  easily 
severed.  I  could  not,  would  not  give  him  up.  My  whole 
soul  was  bound  up  in  him.  '  I  had  rather  die,'  said  I,  '  than 
to  be  sundered  from  him.'  '  Then,'  said  my  brother, '  you  must 
be  sundered  from  me,  for  I  will  never  own  him  as  my  brother. 
If  you  ever  marry  that  light,  superficial,  and  heartless  dan- 
dy, I  will  never  visit  you,  or  own  you  as  my  sister.  No — 
we  shall  be  two.'  '  Well,  brother,  if  it  must  be  so,  I  had 
rather  part  with  you  than  with  him.'  My  brother  left  me, 
evidently  under  strong  excitement. 

"  Astonishing !  thought  I,  that  my  friends  will  oppose  me 
in  receiving  such  a  suitor  as  Mr.  W.  There  are  hundreds 
of  ladies  of  the  first  respectability,  who  would  consider 
themselves  the  most  fortunate  of  beings,  were  they  in  my 
place.  Psha  ! — it 's  only  a  freak  of  my  brother's  disordered 
imagination.  He  will  come  to  himself  by-and-by,  and  make 
an  apology  to  me  for  what  he  has  said  in  so  much  haste. 
Be  that  as  it  may,  my  young  and  foolish  heart  said,  Samuel 
is  mine,  and  I  am  his.  He  loves  me  most  tenderly,  and  he 
has  means  in  abundance  to  make  me  happy.  Why  should 
I  fear.  As  to  his  becoming  poor,  there  is  not  much  danger. 
His  income  would  more  than  support  us  both,  and  that  too 
most  respectably.  Beside,  he  is  a  going  to  open  a  large 
wholesale  store  as  soon  as  we  are  married.  He  will  then  be 
steady,  and  increase  his  wealth,  and  will  make  a  man  of 
great  weight  and  influence  in  the  world.  When  my  brother 
sees  this,  all  will  be  well,  and  he  will  be  among  the  mumber 
of  those  who  will  feel  it  an  honor  to  be  in  his  friendship. 
Thus  I  soliloquized,  until  I  had  built  a  beautiful  castle ;  but 
alas !  I  forgot  that  its  foundation  was  in  the  air, 

"  The  baseless  fabric  of  a  vision." 


38  THE  WIFE. 


THE  WIFE. 

AND  after  all,  what  is  it  that  man  seeks  in  the  compan- 
ionship of  woman? — an  influence  like  the  gentle  dew,  and 
the  cheering  light,  more  felt  throughout  the  whole  of  his 
existence,  in  its  softening,  healing,  harmonizing  power,  than 
acknowledged  by  any  single  act,  or  recognized  by  any  cer- 
tain rule.  It  is,  in  fact,  a  being  to  come  home  to,  in  the 
happiest  sense  of  that  expression. 

Poetic  lays  of  ancient  times  were  wont  to  tell  how  the 
bold  warrior  returning  from  the  fight,  would  doff  his  plumed 
helmet,  and  reposing  from  his  toils,  lay  bare  his  weary 
limbs,  that  woman's  hand  might  pour  into  their  wounds 
the  healing  balm.  But  never  wearied  knight,  or  warrior 
covered  with  the  dust  of  battle-field,  was  more  in  need  of 
woman's  soothing  power,  than  are  those  care-worn  sons  of 
toil,  who  struggle  for  the  bread  of  life,  in  our  more  peace- 
ful and  enlightened  days.  And  still  though  the  romance 
of  the  castle,  the  helmet,  the  waving  plume,  and  the 

"  Clarion  wild  and  high," 

may  all  have  vanished  from  the  scene,  the  charm  of  wo- 
man's influence  lives  as  brightly  in  the  picture  of  domestic 
joy,  as  when  she  placed  the  wreath  of  victory  on  the  hero's 
brow.  Nay,  more  so;  for  there  are  deeper  sensibilities  at 
work,  thoughts  more  profound,  and  passions  more  intense, 
in  our  great  theatre  of  intellectual  and  moral  strife,  than 
where  the  contest  was  for  martial  fame,  and  force  of  arms 
procured  for  each  competitor  his  share  of  glory  or  of  wealth. 
Among  all  the  changes  which  have  taken  place  in  the 
condition  of  mankind,  it  is  then  not  the  least  of  woman's 
privileges,  that  her  influence  remains  the  same,  except  only 
as  it  is  deepened  and  perfected  as  her  own  character  ap- 
proaches perfection.  It  is  not  the  least  of  her  privileges, 
that  she  can  still  be  all  to  man  which  his  necessities  require ; 
that  he  can  retire  from  the  tumult  of  the  world,  and  seek 
her  society  with  a  zest  which  nothing  can  impair,  so  long 


REST   IN   HEAVEN.  38 

as  she  receives  him  with  a  true  and  faithful  heart — true  to 
the  best  and  kindest  impulses  of  which  her  nature  is  capa- 
ble :  and  faithful  to  the  sacred  trust  committed  to  her  care. 
And  that  it  is  so,  how  many  a  home  can  witness — how 
many  a  fireside  welcome,  how  many  a  happy  meeting  after 
absence  painfully  prolonged  !  Yes,  there  are  scenes  within 
the  sacred  precincts  of  the  household  hearth,  which,  not  the 
less,  because  no  stranger's  eye  beholds  them,  repay,  and 
richly  too,  dark  days  of  weary  conflict,  and  long  nights  of 
anxious  care.  But  who  shall  paint  them?  Are  they  not 
graven  on  the  hearts  of  wives  ?  and  those  who  hold  the 
picture  there,  in  all  its  beauty,  vividness,  and  truth,  would 
scarcely  wish  to  draw  aside  the  veil  which  screens  it  from 
the  world. — Mrs.  Ellis. 


REST  IN  HEAVEN. 

SHOULD  sorrow  o'er  thy  brow 

Its  darkened  shadows  fling, 
And  hopes  that  cheer  thee  now, 

Die  in  their  early  spring ; 
Should  pleasure  at  its  birth 

Fade  like  the  hues  of  even, 
Turn  thou  away  from  earth, 

There  's  rest  for  thee  in  Heaven. 

If  ever  life  shall  seem 

To  thee  a  toilsome  way, 
And  gladness  cease  to  beam 

Upon  its  clouded  day ; 
If  like  the  weary  dove 

O'er  shoreless  ocean  driven ; 
Raise  thou  thine  eye  above, 

There  's  rest  for  thee  in  Heaven. 

But  O,  if  thornless  flowers 

Throughout  thy  pathway  bloom, 
And  gaily  fleet  the  hours, 

Unstained  by  earthly  gloom  : 
Still  let  not  every  thought 

To  this  poor  world  be  given, 
Nor  always  be  forgot 

Thy  better  peace  in  Heaven. 


40  FEMALE   ORNAMENTS. 


FEMALE  ORNAMENTS. 

*T  is  not  with  supercilious  nicety  we  intrude  our  views  on 
this  subject,  but  with  a  becoming  sense  of  its  delicacy,  from 
the  amiableness  of  those,  whose  practice  we  repudiate. 

Our  sentiments  on  the  subject  of  female  ornaments,  as 
they  are  caljed,  are  too  dissonant,  too  wide  from  the  prevail- 
ing customs  of  the  age  to  be  introduced  in  other  than  the 
most  courteous  language.  And  yet  we  frankly  confess 
ourself  unable  to  speak  otherwise  than  plainly  on  the  sub- 
ject. 

To  say  that  a  custom  at  once  so  general  and  loved  is 
unnecessary,  would  scarcely  meet  an  objection  in  the  sanc- 
tuary of  the  heart,  though  there  may  be  some  perhaps  who 
might  suppose  them  quite  indispensable,  where  there  is 
nothing  superior  to  win  the  affections  and  esteem  she  would 
control.  But  really,  how  little  could  she  reasonably  prom- 
ise herself  from  a  source  capable  of  yielding  to  the  power 
of  such  attractions. 

The  exhibition  of  such  a  bait,  to  whomsoever  tossed,  tes- 
tifies too  clearly  to  the  estimate  in  which  their  taste  is  held 
by  the  fair  pretender,  and  sure  we  are  that  nothing  but 
tender  commiseration,  could  suppress  an  exhibition  of 
sickened  disgust  on  the  part  of  discriminating  persons.  Our 
conviction  therefore  is,  that  to  decorate  one's  self  with  mere 
trinkets,  call  them  pearls  if  you  please,  with  a  view  to  con- 
ciliate the  esteem  of  others,  to  gratify  their  tastes,  and  win 
their  love,  is  doing  violence  to  good  taste.  Such  a  position 
is  too  nearly  allied  to  the  meretricious  conduct  of  those  who 
at  once  excite  the  pity  and  disgust  of  the  virtuous,  to  be 
regarded  in  an  enviable  light.  While  the  display  of  such 
appendages  indicates  the  estimate  in  which  others'  taste  is 
held,  it  portrays  the  outlines  of  its  own  groveling  properties, 
just  as  the  volcanic  crater  exhibits  its  own  horrific  outlines 
by  the  very  glare  which  renders  visible  surrounding  objects. 

With  delicacy  of  feeling,  though  plainness  of  expression, 
we  venture  the  inquiry, — Is  it  not  somewhat  rare  to  find 
good,  solid  endowments,  blended  with  a  profusion  of  orna- 


FEMALE   ORNAMENTS.  41 

ments  ?  Too  great  a  preference  for  these  wherever  exhib- 
ited, involuntarily  brings  to  mind  the  charge  of  our  Saviour 
against  the  Scribes  and  Pharisees,  whitened  sepulchres, 
beautiful  in  their  outside  appearance,  but,  O !  how  little  to 
be  desired  within.  Beside,  the  more  labored  and  expensive 
the  effort  at  merely  outward  attractions,  the  deeper  the 
persuasion  of  the  beholder,  of  the  absence  of  mental  jewelry, 
and  the  wearer's  implied  confession  of  the  same.  Truly 
we  might  be  censured,  for  uncharitableness,  by  the  less  scru- 
pulous, but  honestly,  the  impression  is  somewhat  intuitive 
on  our  mind. 

'T  is  not  pretended  that  there  are  no  exceptions  to  the 
above  rule  of  measurement ;  but  we  think  the  inference 
drawn  will  hold  good  in  a  majority  of  cases,  especially  when 
the  habit  is  adopted  and  has  not  been  a  part  of  one's  educa- 
tion or  peculiar  to  her  station  in  life. 

Writers  on  etiquette,  who  allow  the  use  of  ornaments, 
condemn  an  ostentatious  display  of  jewelry.  And  surely  if 
refined  taste  sets  a  limit  to  these  things,  the  Christian 
religion  should  purify  the  temple  entire.  Could  our  godly 
sense  appreciate,  and  the  piety  of  the  heart  approve  the  taste 
Heaven  has  commended,  surely  our  claims  to  genuine 
modesty  would  no  sooner  be  questioned  than  the  orthodoxy 
of  our  principles. 

It  has  always  appeared  to  our  mind,  since  we  have 
thought  at  all  on  the  subject,  that  an  extravagant  attire  ren- 
ders one's  claims  to  genuine  modesty  somewhat  doubtful. 
Such  an  avowal  as  this  may  shock  the  sensibilities  of  many 
who  have  never  suspected  themselves  to  be  any  way  de- 
ficient, not  even  in  the  smallest  degree,  of  this,  one  of  the 
chief  excellences  of  the  female  character. 

To  deny  that  such  things  are  worn  to  attract  the  atten- 
tion, the  particular  gaze  of  others,  that  the  intention  is  to 
set  one's  self  up  as  a  show,  which  costs  the  beholder  nothing, 
but  the  exhibiter  much,  would  render  such  a  custom  the 
very  essence  of  folly.  For  without  the  delightful  gratifi- 
cation of  being  looked  at,  where  is  the  utility  of  such  appen- 
dages 1  The  practice,  aside  from  this,  adds  not  in  the 
remotest  degree  to  the  comfort  or  convenience  of  the  person. 
Genuine  modesty  asks  not  for  the  attentions  which  such 


42  FEMALE    ORNAMENTS. 

attractions  win.  She  draws  the  veil  of  delicacy  over  her 
maiden  features,  and  while  she  is  disquieted  by  the  stare  of 
the  vulgar,  she  betrays  no  solicitude  for  the  special  gaze  of 
her  equals. 

But  before  I  conclude  my  remarks  on  this  point,  let  me 
refer  the  practice  of  wearing  ornaments  to  the  source  from 
whence,  at  least  in  part,  it  received  its  pedigree,  and  upon 
which  it  is  mainly  chargeable  for  its  continuance,  viz., 
the  approval  of  the  coarser  sex,  whom  you  would  please. 
Yes,  we  will  give  you  the  credit  of  striving  to  please  in  this, 
though  the  confession  should  betray  our  bad  taste.  And 
here  we  frankly  confess  that  when  we  can  give  you  an  inti- 
mation that  our  esteem  shall  be  best  secured  by  leaving 
them  off,  you  will  free  yourselves  in  this  matter — "  Yea, 
what  clearing  of  yourselves."* — Until  we  do  this,  I  am 
free  to  confess  that  we  remain  the  sharers  of  your  folly. 

The  practice  of  wearing  artificial  flowers  is  so  palpable  a 
violation  of  good  taste,  that  it  needs  barely  to  be  mentioned, 
to  elicit  the  approval  of  all  possessing  a  chaste  discrimi- 
nation. 

"It  has  been  said  that  the  lady  who  would  wear  these 
'  imitations'  would  be  guilty  of  any  other  fraud  for  the 
gratification  of  her  vanity." — We  cannot  be  so  severe  :  we 
repel  the  inference,  still  it  is  worthy  of  thought  whether 
such  things  may  not  lead  to  the  practice  of  imposture  in 
matters  more  serious. 

We  had  almost  given  utterance  to  the  sentiment,  that  to 
manufacture  them,  is  an  attempt  at  imitation,  which  does 
violence  to  nature.  Who  will  be  so  profane  as  to  attempt 
to  imitate  some  of  the  most  exquisite  specimens  of  infinite 
skill,  with  bits  of  cloth  colored  and  woven  into  deception? 
Verily,  after  all  the  ingenuity  of  the  mock  artist,  they  are 
"  rags"  and  not  roses.  And  then,  as  if  it  were  not  enough 
to  ape  nature,  the  offence  is  doubled  by  an  attempt  to  deco- 
rate and  render  more  beautiful,  that  which  has  received  the 
plastic  touch  of  the  Creator's  hand. 

Is  the  complexion  fair,  and  do  the  combined  proportions  of 
the  countenance  present  a  harmonious  sweetness  of  expres- 
sion? [the  perfection  of  all  earthly  beauties] — what  a  pity 

*  St.  Paul. 


FEMALE   ORNAMENTS.  43. 

to  fall  into  the  offensive  mistake,  that  artificial  'flowers  can 
improve  and  render  that  countenance  still  more  lovely. 
And  sure  we  feel,  that  to  attempt  to  make  up  for  supposed 
defects,  or  real  ones,  by  covering  them  with  what  is  known 
to  be  deception,  makes  the  offence  double,  and  aggravates 
the  deformity. 

It  was  an  apostle's  creed,  "that women  adorn  themselves 
in  modest  apparel,  with  shamefacedness,"  that  is  with 
modesty,  "  and  sobriety :  not  with  broidered  hair,  or  gold, 
or  pearls,  or  costly  array;" — "but  with  good  works" — 
amiableness  of  deportment. 

True  simplicity  is  true  dignity;  whether  it  adorn  the 
form,  or  regulate  the  carriage  :  and  the  heart  that  is  won  by 
her  inimitable  charms  is  a  captive  for  life.  Simplicity  is 
the  offspring  of  a  "meek  and  quiet  spirit," — this  the  orna- 
ment approved  of  God,  chosen  for  the  decoration  of  his 
temple,  whose  temple  ye  are;  an  "  ornament  of  great  price 
in  his  sight." 

Here  then  is  the  true  standard  of  correct  taste.  It  comes 
from  heaven,  pure,  holy,  consistent,  and  of  unprecedented 
comeliness.  We  regard  it  as  the  true  standard  of  taste, 
of  etiquette  in  dress,  as  well  as  the  oracle  of  sound  morals. 

"  Hail,  artless  simplicity,  beautiful  maid, 
In  the  genuine  attractions  of  nature  arrayed, 
Let  the  rich  and  the  proud,  and  the  gay  and  the  vain, 
Still  laugh  at  the  graces  that  move  in  thy  train. 

"  No  charms  in  thy  modest  allurements  they  find  ; 
The  pleasures  they  follow  a  sting  leave  behind  ; 
Can  criminal  passion  enrapture  the  breast  ,  : 
Like  virtue,  with  peace  and  serenity  blest1? 

"  O  would  you  simplicity's  precepts  attend, 
Like  us,  with  delight  at  her  altar  you  'd  bend  ; 
The  pleasures  she  yields  would  with  joy  be  embraced, 
You  'd  practise  from  virtue  and  love  them  from  taste" 

J.   S.   S. 
LOWELL,  Dec.  2,  1845. 


WINTER. 


FRIENDSHIP. 

SHE  clasps  Naomi's  neck  and  sighs, 
And  clings  in  wild  devotion  there, 

And  lifting  up  her  earnest  eyes, 

She  murmurs,  "  Mother,  hear  my  prayer! 

If  some  lone  dove,  on  wounded  wing, 
Should  flutter  to  thy  gentle  breast, 

My  mother  !  would'st  thou  coldly  fling 
The  trembler  from  its  place  of  rest1? 

That  lone  and  weary  dove  am  I ! 

The  home,  the  hearth,  I  leave  for  thee, 
In  darkness  and  deserted  life, 

My  mother,  wilt  thou  turn  from  me  ? 

His  smile,  who  made  that  home  all  light, 
His  voice,  who  breathed  the  hallowed  vow, 

The  ray  went  out  in  death's  dark  night — 
The  sound — the  grave  hath  hushed  it  now. 

O,  '  where  thou  goest  I  will  go  !' 

The  shrine  at  which  thou  kneel'st  in  prayer, 
The  skies  that  o'er  thy  pathway  glow, 

Shall  see  thy  child  before  thee  there. 

0,  '  where  thou  diest  I  will  die  ! ' 
Thy  home  is  mine,  and  mine  thy  God, 

The  very  grave  where  thou  dost  lie, 
Shall  shelter  me  beneath  its  sod." 


WINTER. 

THE  buds  of  spring,  bright  summer's  blooming  flowers, 

And  autumn's  rich  abundance,  all  are  past ; 
The  lingering  warblers  quit  their  leafless  bowers, 

Which  yield  no  refuge  from  the  frequent  blast, 
Now  reeking  mists  abstract  the  solar  beams, 

And  threatening  clouds  the  face  of  heaven  deform  ; 
Relentless  frost  arrests  the  silver  streams, 

And  hail  and  snow  come  rushing  on  the  storm ! 

Ladies1  Repository. 


ELLEN   WHARTON.  45 


ELLEN  WHARTON. 

IT  was  an  autumnal  evening — the  forests  had  begun  to* 
don  their  mantles  of  gorgeous  colors ;  the  fields,  shorn  of 
their  purest  treasures,  lay  like  golden  lakelets  in  the  rich 
and  mellow  sunset ;  the  noble  highlands,  like  giant  warriors, 
clothed  in  their  panoply  of  rock  and  foliage,  threw  their 
sullen  shadows  far  out  upon  the  bosom  of  the  glorious 
Merrimac,  who,  rolling  in  his  path  of  beauty,  gleamed  like 
a  fallen  rainbow  in  the  innumerable  tints  of  occidental 
glory.  Far  in  the  distance  towered  the  venerable  domes  of 

the,  city  of  M ;  the  first  star  was  twinkling  on  the 

brow  of  twilight ;  deep,  dark  clouds  were  encircling  the 
zone  of  creation ;  rock  and  mountain,  tree  and  shrub,  hill, 
dale,  valley  and  rivulet,  all  commingled  in  one  hazy  soft- 
ness, rendering  it  a  scene  of  indescribable  loveliness,  beauti- 
ful as  in  those  days  of  primitive  innocence,  ere  sin  was 
known,  or  desolation  and  decay  had  fallen  on  the  blossoms 
of  our  earthly  Eden. 

Two  young  ladies  might  have  been  seen  bending  their 
footsteps  up  the  avenue  leading  to  the  splendid  mansion  of 
Esq.  Wharton,  apparently  in  deep  and  earnest  conversa- 
tion ;  they  were  both  young  and  lovely,  but  the  beautiful 
features  of  the  elder  were  distorted  by  anger  and  pride, 
which  agitated  her.  Although  I  could  not  hear  their  conver- 
sation, yet  I  knew  by  the  harsh  angry  tones  of  the  one,  and 
the  tremulous  accents  of  the  other,  that  it  was  anything  but 
pleasing,  and  feeling  a  strong  desire  to  hear,  I  walked  so 
near  to  them,  concealing  myself  in  the  shade  of  the  multi- 
tude of  trees  which  filled  the  park,  that  I  could  distinctly 
hear  all  they  said. 

"  Really,  Ellen,  your  conduct  is  intolerable.  How  you 
can  so  far  forget  your  origin,  as  to  associate,  as  you  do,  with 
the  low  and  poor  class  of  society,  is,  to  all  your  friends, 
astonishing." 

"  I  know  not  what  you  mean,  sister  Laura;  you  speak 
as  though  I  were  guilty  of  something  very  indecorous.  I 


46  ELLEN    WHARTON. 

know  of  no  low  people  with  whom  I  have  ever  asso- 
ciated." 

"You  know  well  enough  to  whom  I  refer.  Do  you  feel 
very  much  flattered  by  the  attentions  of  Frank  Arland  ? 
You  treat  him  with  as  much  politeness  as  if  he  were  our 
equal  in  rank  and  station.  It  cannot  be  that  you  are  in 
your  right  mind,  when  you  prefer  his  society  to'  the  hand- 
some, dashing  Harry  Lambert." 

"  Harry  Lambert !  do  not  name  him  in  connection  with 
Frank  Arland ;  who  is  as  far  his  superior,  as  yon  bright 
and  glorious  orb  is  to  the  most  minute  star  which  surrounds 
it.  'Tis  true,  he  is  poor,  while  Harry  is  rich;  but  poverty 
is  no  crime,  neither  is  it  anything  one  need  be  ashamed  of. 
The  mightiest  minds  that  ever  astonished  the  civilized  world 
were  nursed  in  the  lap  of  poverty — that  was  their  incentive 
to  action — their  stimulant  to  glory  and  immortality  :  indeed, 
nearly  all  our  great  and  distinguished  men  were  born  of 
poor  parents,  and  are  not  the  poor  God's  chosen  people? 
Surely,  sister,  if  the  Creator  of  the  universe,  the  King  of 
kings,  is  not  ashamed  to  love  and  own  them  for  his  chosen 
ones,  we  ought  not  to  despise  them." 

"  But  he  is  our  father's  clerk ;  think  of  that,  Ellen;  merely 
a  '  counter  jumper.'  Surely,  his  talents  have  already  secured 
him  a  very  distinguished  title,  and  I  should  not  wonder  if 
he  yet  immortalized  his  name,  by  his  great  and  wonderful 
achievements.  I  already  imagine  him  a  Franklin,  Hogarth, 
or  a  Napoleon.  I  believe  their  parents  were  poor.  I  must 
confess,  the  prospect  is  at  present  very  flattering." 

"  I  did  not  say,  sister  Laura,  that  I  ever  expected  he 
would  act  a  very  distinguished  part  in  the  grand  drama  of 
life,  or  gain  a  name  among  the  great  ones  of  the  earth  ;  but 
this  much  I  say,  he  possesses  talents  of  no  ordinary  kind. 
And  what  if  he  is  in  the  employ  of  my  father?  What  better 
is  the  employer  than  the  employed?  Both  had  the  same 
Maker,  and  both  are  upheld  and  sustained  by  the  same 
Being.  Both  are  striving  for  the  same  object,  a  'living  ;'  if 
one  is  more  avaricious  than  the  other,  what  better  is  he  ? 
'Tis  true,  one  may  have  more  gold  than  the  other;  the 
shrine  at  which  hundreds  bow  and  worship  with  a  fond 
idolatry.  But  what  is  wealth  ?  7T  is  a  cloak  that  covers 


ELLEN   WHARTON.  47 

crime — it  is  worse  than  the  £  blear-eyed  famine,'  more  fatal 
than  the  '  festering  folds  of  the  purple  pestilence.'  It  shuts 
the  heart  to  sympathy,  and,  in  many  instances,  I  regret  to 
say,  it  has  cooled  the  love  of  children  to  their  parents,  and 
consigned  them  to  oblivion;  it  often  renders  people  wretched 
and  unhappy."  Perhaps  she  was  thinking  of  herself  then, 
for,  had  she  been  poor,  she  might  have  been  happy  in  the 
love  of  Frank  Arland  ;  but  as  it  was,  she  saw  no  prospect 
of  realizing  the  fondest  and,  indeed,  the  only  wish  of  her 
heart — her  union  with  her  love,  for  such  was  Frank  :  they 
had  long  been  secretly  betrothed. 

"  Well,  if  you  have  got  through  your  eloquent  harangue, 
1  am  truly  glad  :  but  I  do  really  think,  you  are  a  disgrace 
to  the  name  of  the  ancient  and  noble  family  of  Whartons, 
by  adopting  such  low  sentiments :  pray,  never  express  them 
before  any  sensible  person  again." 

I  heard  no  more  of  their  conversation,  for  they  had  by 
this  time,  nearly  arrived  at  the  door,  and  I  dared  approach 
no  farther ;  I  waited  until  the  door  closed  upon  them,  when 
I  immediately  quitted  the  park,  and  hastily  retraced  my 
steps  to  my  lodgings,  lest  I  should  be  discovered  by  some 
domestic,  wandering  about  the  premises  of  Esq.  Wharton, 
and  either  suffer  the  fate  of  a  plunderer,  or  be  obliged  to  tell 
my  object  in  being  there — which  would  be  still  worse  ;  for 
I  really  felt  criminal  in  my  own  estimation,  for  the  ungentle- 
manly  part  I  had  acted,  of  which  so  many  young  coxcombs 
boast  in  these  days — that  of  following  the  young  ladies 
home.  I  had  heard  enough  to  excite  my  curiosity,  to  learn, 
if  possible,  who  these  two  young  ladies  were ;  for  I  could 
not  help  thinking  of  the  pallid  countenance,  and  meek  re- 
plies, of  one  of  them,  which  indicated  that  sorrow  was  not  a 
stranger  to  her  heart,  and  by  what  little  I  heard  of  their 
conversation,  I  feared  there  was  more  in  store  for  her. 

I  related  the  adventure  of  the  evening  to  my  host,  who 
told  me  the  young  ladies,  as  I  suspected,  were  Laura  and 
Ellen  Wharton,  daughters  of  Esq.  Wharton. 

Esq.  Wharton,  said  my  host,  is  a  man  of  warm  and 
noble  impulses,  great  benevolence  of  disposition  and  kind- 
liness of  heart,  yet  he  is  of  strong  and  passionate  temper, 
rash  in  judgment,  and  hasty  in  decision ;  proud  of  the 


48  ELLEN    WHARTON. 

ancient  name  of  Wharton — proud  of  his  broad  lands,  of  his 
numerous  dwellings  in  the  city,  of  his  beautiful  and  elegant 
seat  in  the  country,  and,  above  all,  exceedingly  proud  of 
his  lovely  daughters.  He  had  married,  at  an  early  age,  a 
young  lady  of  rich  parents,  his  equal  in  birth  and  in  every 
other  respect,  his  superior;  for  she  possessed  every  good 
quality  that  constitutes  an  amiable  lady.  She  possessed  not 
only  great  personal  beauty,  but  what  is  far  better,  beauty 
of  the  soul,  beauty  of  holiness.  She  died  soon  after  the 
birth  of  Ellen,  her  youngest  born,  leaving  her  two  little 
ones  in  the  care  of  her  husband,  after  having  commended 
them  to  the  protection  of  Heaven,  and  exhorted  her  husband 
to  bring  them  up  in  the  fear  of  the  Lord.  Thus  were  Ellen 
and  Laura  deprived  of  their  mother  at  an  early  age. 

Esq.  Wharton  was,  as  I  said  before,  very  proud  of  his 
daughters,  and  lavished  money  upon  their  education  with 
no  stinting  hand.  Laura,  the  elder  by  two  years,  was,  at 
the  time  our  story  commences,  incomparably  beautiful ;  in 
appearance  tall  and  graceful,  hands  and  feet  of  faultless 
symmetry,  her  eyes  were  dark  as  night,  yet  soft  and  dreamy, 
now  melting  in  its  own  fire,  now  burning  like  stars  in  the 
midnight  sky;  her  features  were  perfect,  in  all  that  makes 
loveliness  in  woman  :  a  smile  of  light  sometimes  played  on 
a  lip  of  love,  illuminating  all  her  rare  and  glorious  person  ; 
then  sometimes  her  beautiful  mouth  would  curve  in  scorn 
or  anger,  giving  to  her  whole  countenance  a  repulsive  and 
haughty  expression.  Pride  of  birth,  and  a  consciousness 
of  her  exceeding  loveliness,  had  given  a  slight  degree  of 
haughtiness  to  her  manner  which,  perhaps,  heightened  her 
charms.  She  was  exceedingly  fond  of  dress,  and,  having 
always  been  accustomed  to  having  her  own  way,  was  both 
wilful  and  independent. 

Ellen,  too,  was  beautiful ;  her  form  was  faultless  and 
equalled  in  gracefulness,  a  Medician  Venus ;  her  eye  was 
of  the  deepest  blue,  her  complexion  dazzlingly  fair ;  the 
marble  paleness  of  her  brow,  relieved  by  the  rich  tint  of 
crimson  on  her  cheek,  gave  an  additional  charm  to  the  ex- 
pression of  her  fine  features ;  her  hair  fell  in  long  silken 
ringlets  upon  a  neck  of  alabaster  whiteness,  and  her  smile, 
oh,  who  can  describe  it? — so  bright,  so  childlike,  was  that 


ELLEN   WHARTON.  49 

sunny  smile.  She  possessed  none  of  the  pride  and  haughti- 
ness which  characterized  her  sister,  but  was  kind  to  all ;  in 
short  she  inherited  all  her  mother's  goodness  of  heart :  none 
could  look  at  her,  and  not  love  her — at  least,  so  thought 
Frank  Arland. 

Frank  Arland  was  a  young  man  of  prepossessing  appear- 
ance ;  frank,  affable,  unassuming,  he  had  gained  what  he 
merited,  the  esteem  of  all  who  knew  him.  Ellen  was  not 
blind  to  his  merits,  she  saw  that  he  possessed  talents  not 
common  to  all — and  she  loved  him. 

True  love  is  always  accompanied  with  doubts  ;  it  is  diffi- 
cult for  the  soul  filled  with  devoted  tenderness,  to  believe 
that  a  reciprocity  of  feeling  exists  with  the  being  of  its  idola- 
try. A  disinterested  observer  may  discern,  with  unerring 
certainty,  the  mutual  attachment  of  two  kindred  hearts,  but 
between  themselves,  the  one  will  be  continually  raising 
doubts  as  to  the  feelings  or  sincerity  of  the  other. 

It  was  so  with  Frank ;  he  could  scarce  believe  that  one 
so  universally  praised  and  flattered,  could  fix  her  attach- 
ment upon  him.  Sometimes  he  would  suspect  her  of  loving 
Harry  Lambert;  for  he  had  heard  him  vauntingly say,  that 
he  could  already  command  her  sweetest  smiles,  and  it  only 
remained  for  him  to  propose,  to  be  accepted;  and  Lambert 
had  acquired  the  reputation  of  being  a  successful  trifler. 

Again,  hope  would  illume  his  bosom,  and  he  would  pic- 
ture to  himself  the  bliss  of  that  moment,  when  the  fair 
Ellen  Wharton  would  become  his  affianced  bride.  Thus 
would  hope  and  fear  alternately  triumph  in  the  heart  of 
Frank.  He  dreaded  avowing,  lest  he  should  be  repulsed  : 
he  feared  to  delay,  lest  he  should  undo  himself. 

Such  were  his  feelings,  when,  one  beautiful  evening,  he 
called  at  Esq.  Wharton' s,  was  ushered  into  the  drawing- 
room — being  on  terms  of  intimacy  with  them,  where  he 
found  Ellen  alone.  He  thought  this  a  favorable  oppor- 
tunity to  make  known  his  feelings  to  Ellen,  and  learn  hers 
in  return.  I  shall  not  attempt  to  tell  you  how  this  was 
accomplished,  for  I  am  not  very  well  versed  in  describing 
proposals,  perhaps,  because  I  have  never  heard  one ;  it  is 
enough  for  you  to  know,  he  proposed  and  was  accepted — 
that  they  thought  best  to  keep  it  secret,  for  a  while,  know- 
4 


50  ELLEN    WHARTON. 

ing  that  her  friends  were  resolved  on  her  marrying  Henry 
Lambert. 

On  the  evening  when  my  story  commences,  Ellen,  in- 
stead of  first  entering  the  drawing-room  to  greet  her  father, 
as  was  her  custom  after  a  walk,  retired  immediately  to  her 
chamber — flung  herself  into  a  chair,  when  the  tears  she  had 
long  restrained,  flowed  freely  from  the  fountain  of  grief  at 
her  heart,  and  coursed  down  her  pale  cheek.  How  often 
sorrow  drives  the  rose  from  the  cheek  of  the  young  and 
lovely ! 

"Why  was  not  I  born  of  poor  parents,  or  he  of  rich 
ones?"  she  exclaimed;  "then  we  might  have  been  happy. 
Oh,  my  mother!  why  wast  thou  taken  from  me?  Why 
was  not  thy  life  prolonged — if  only  to  be  a  source  of  com- 
fort to  thy  sorrowing  child?  Father  in  heaven,  forgive 
me  ! "  she  said,  checking  herself,  "  for  murmuring  against  the 
dispensations  of  thy  providence.  My  mother  is  free  from 
sorrow,  and  it  would  be  worse  than  cruelty,  for  me  to  wish 
her  back  again  in  this  cold  and  unfeeling  world.  Yet,  O ! 
dearest  mother  !  would  to  God  I  had  laid  my  head  on  thy 
bosom,  and  died,  ere  I  had  known  sorrow.  But,  if  thou  art 
in  heaven,  thou  wilt  not  forget  me ;  methinks  thy  angelic 
spirit  is  hovering  round  me — even  now,  bidding  me  '  be  of 
good  cheer.'  Dear  mother,  wilt  thou  ever  be  my  guardian 
angel? — and  then,  when  I  feel  thee  near,  know  that  thy 
sweet  spirit  is  hovering  over  the  pathway  of  my  existence, 
shall  I  be  kept  from  evil — have  strength  to  perform  my 
duty,  however  painful  it  may  be.  Then  shall  I  know  it  is 
thy  voice,  so  soft  and  low,  whispering  in  my  ear,  '  daughter, 
obey  the  commands  of  thy  father,  and  then  wilt  thou  have 
peace,  if  not  happiness ;  the  consciousness  of  having  done 
right,  of  having  obeyed  thy  parent,  will  afford  thee  conso- 
lation.' '  While  thus  soliloquizing,  she  was  startled  by  a 
loud  rap  on  the  door,  which  was  immediately  opened  by 
Pauline,  her  favorite  servant. 

"  Ah,  Pauline  !  is  it  you  ?  I  feared  it  was come  sit 

down  by  me,"  she  said,  checking  herself,  "  and  tell  me 
again  all  you  know  about  my  saintly  mother.  I  should 
never  grow  weary  of  hearing  her  goodness  praised,  her  vir- 
tues extolled.  You  see,"  she  added,  smiling  through  her 
tears,  "I  have  been  thinking  about  her." 


ELLEN   WHARTON.  51 

"  I  would  gratify  you  with  all  my  heart,  Miss  Ellen,  but 
your  father  sent  me  to  bid  you  instantly  meet  him  in  the 
library,  and  not  delay,  as  he  had  something  of  importance 
to  communicate  to  you." 

Poor  Ellen's  cheek  grew  still  paler  at  these  words ;  for 
she  guessed  the  import  of  this  unceremonious  summons. 
But  she  hastily  dried  her  tears,  bathed  her  eyes,  and  with 
a  beating  heart  and  faltering  step,  descended  to  the  library. 
She  hesitated  at  the  door,  in  order  to  calm  her  agitation, 
listening  in  breathless  silence  to  the  heavy  footsteps  of  her 
father,  pacing  to  and  fro  the  room,  in  great  excitement. 
She  placed  one  hand  upon  her  heart,  as  though  to  quiet  its 
throbbings,  and  the  other  upon  the  latch  of  the  door,  dread- 
ing to  enter  her  father's  presence ;  for  she  feared  his  pene- 
trating eye  might  discern  traces  of  recent  tears,  and  guess 
the  cause  of  her  grief.  She  wished  to  bury  her  trouble  in 
her  own  bosom,  and  obey  her  father's  commands,  whatever 
they  might  be ;  yet  she  secretly  prayed  that  he  would 
neither  bid  her  receive  the  addresses  of  Harry  Lambert,  nor 
oppose  her  union  with  Frank  Arland.  At  length,  she 
opened  the  door  and  stood  in  her  father's  presence,  waiting 
for  him  to  address  her ;  but  he  kept  pacing  the  room  with 
rapid  strides,  without  even  once  noticing  the  fair  being  who 
stood  trembling  before  him.  She  stood  for  a  moment  fixed 
and  speechless,  for  she  was  alarmed,  having  never  before 
seen  her  father  so  agitated ;  at  length,  she,  with  a  falter- 
ing voice,  'ventured  to  break  the  awful  silence. 

"You  wish  to  speak  with  me,  father!  Pauline  told  me 
so,  and  I  have  come  to  hear  what  you  have  to  communicate 
tome.  But  why,  dear  father,  are  you  so  agitated?  Surely 
something  must  have  happened  :  do  not  hesitate  to  tell  me, 
for  if  anything  has  happened,  I  ought  to  know  it — for  what 
concerns  you,  concerns  us  all.  Speak,  dear  father,  and  keep 
me  no  longer  in  suspense." 

She  did  not  wish  her  father  to  think  she  suspected  the 
cause  of  his  agitation. 

"  You  are  a  good  girl,  Ellen,"  said  he,  at  length  approach- 
ing her  and  leading  her  to  a  seat,  "  and  have  ever  been 
reasonable;  therefore,  I  take  courage  to  address  you  upon  a 
subject  of  vast  importance  to  your  present  and  future 
welfare." 

[To  be  continued.! 


"THE  ROSE  FOR  ME." 


AN  EXPRESSION  OF  GRATITUDE  FOR  A  NEW  YEAR'S  PRESENT. 

LADIES,  accept  the  warm  returns, 
The  gush  of  gratitude, 
Which  in  my  grateful  bosom  burns, 
For  what  you  have  bestow'd. 

Almoners  of  my  blessed  Lord, 
To  him  my  duty  bear ; 
That  he  may  well  your  souls  reward, 
Shall  be  my  fervent  prayer. 

May  He,  wno  clothes  in  glorious  dress 
The  flowers  that  deck  the  field, 
Robe  you  with  spotless  holiness, 

And  every  blessing  yield. 

f 

With  honor  be  your  names  enroll'd, 
Be  wrote  with  beams  of  light, 
And  as  kings'  daughters  deck'd  in  gold, 
Shine  beautifully  bright. 

And  when  the  Bridegroom  comes  to  wed 
His  Spouse,  and  glorify, 
May  you  be  to  his  palace  led, 
With  songs  and  shouts  of  joy. 


"THE  ROSE  FOR  ME." 

IN  a  far  distant  clime  I  have  left  a  sweet  rose, 
A  blossom  unfolding  its  exquisite  ray  : 
More  lovely  than  morning  it  timidly  glows, 
And  fairer  its  blush  than  the  rich  bloom  of  May. 

I  fear  that  another,  enamored,  may  view  it, 
May  steal  it  away  from  its  fond  parent  stem, 
That  in  absence,  some  fortunate  lover  may  view  it, 
And  I  sigh  when  I  think  of  the  beautiful  gem. 

To  the  shade  where  the  flow'ret  is  destined  to  flourish, 
On  the  wing  of  affection  I  hastily  fly, 
For  what  is  there  sweeter  than  fondly  to  nourish 
What  is  dear  to  the  heart,  what  is  fair  to  the  eye  ? 

Oh  leave  not  the  bower,  sweet  rose,  till  I  come  ; 
Hope  whispers  thy  blooms  I  again  shall  survey  : 
My  bosom,  believe  me.  was  form'd  for  thy  home  ; 
O  leave  not  the  bow'r  till  it  bears  thee  away  ! 


THE   INVALID.  63 


THE  INVALID. 

"SiT  nearer  to  me,"  cried  Ellen;  "my  heart  beats  a 
warm  response  to  the  sentiments  you  utter,  and  I  want  to 
press  you  to  it  in  a  warm  embrace.  O  how  it  cheers  this 
lone  being,  to  have  the  feelings  so  long  confined  within  my 
own  bosom,  breathed  into  my  ear  by  one  that  understands 
their  worth."  The  flush  of  enthusiasm  tinged  her  animated 
face,  as  she  extended  her  thin  hand  and  drew  Ellen's  cheek 
closely  to  her  lips.  "  Ellen,  dear,  I  have  never  before  known 
you.  The  world  called  you  odd,  Ellen,  because  you  would 
not  conform  to  its  rules;  it  said  you  was  proud,  because  you 
joined  not  with  its  sycophants  in  the  idle  chase  of  pleasure  ; 
and  dear,  forbearing,  Ellen,  I  sometimes  spoke  lightly  of 
your  prudent  habits  and  retiring  manners.  But  my  eyes 
have  since  been  unclosed.  Pardon  my  sins  of  ignorance, 
and  talk  to  me  sweetly,  as  your  manner  is,  of  the  state 
towards  which  I  am  being  hastened." 

Ellen  brushed  off  a  tear  which  glistened  beneath  her  eye- 
lid, and  smiling,  said, — "  For  all  your  sins  against  me,  of 
which,  till  this  moment,  I  was  ignorant,  you  have  full  par- 
don ;  but  Annie,  dear,  permit  me  to  beg  you  will  not  talk 
much,  for  your  strength  is  quite  exhausted  by  this  effort." 

Annie's  cough  for  some  time  prevented  a  reply.  Ellen 
watched  her  with  intense  interest,  eager  to  give  all  possible 
relief.  Annie  perceived  her  solicitude,  and  as  soon  as  her 
lungs  were  relieved,  said, — "  It  is  not  very  bad,  dear;  talk- 
ing does  not  distress  me,  though  my  hurried  respiration 
leads  you  to  think  the  effort  painful.  So  do  not  ask  me  not 
to  talk  with  you ;  it  is  a  privilege  I  now  can  duly  value. 
The  pleasure  of  communing  with  a  congenial  spirit  is  to  me 
so  satisfying,  that  I  desire  to  enjoy  it,  undiminished  by  the 
anticipation  of  all  consequences.  The  idea,  that  an  invalid 
is  of  necessity,  the  prey  of  dejection  and  discontent,  is  re- 
ceived by  the  fashionable  world  as  an  orthodox  truth  ;  and 
it  was  not  till  after  I  had  passed  the  ordeal  of  affliction,  that 
I  ventured  to  become  heretical  on  this  point.  My  friends 


.)4  THE    INVALID. 

make  great  efforts  to  render  me  happy ;  but  they  do  not 
understand  me.  Dear  souls  !  they  love  me  fondly  and 
want  to  do  me  good ;  they  only  mistake  the  means.  To 
show  their  kind  concern,  and  relieve  me  of  the  solitary  hours 
which  they  suppose  must  press  as  an  incubus  on  my  heart, 
they  frequently  call  to  tell  me  how  sorry  they  are  that  I  am 
no  better,  and  to  discover  that  my  cheek  is  paler  than  it 
commonly  is,  or  that  my  breathing  is  more  difficult  than 
when  they  last  saw  me ;  and  when  they  take  leave,  hoping 
I  shall  be  better  the  next  time  they  call,  I  feel  that  I  shall 
experience  relief^  that  time." 

"  They  cannot  understand,"  replied  Ellen,  "  that  a  girl  as 
gay  as  you  were  when  in  health,  and  who  found  her  high- 
est enjoyment  in  society,  can  be  happy  in  the  hush  of  her 
sick  chamber,  and  be  entertained  by  the  solitary  exercise  of 
her  mental  faculties.  I  did  not  expect  to  find  you  so  cheer- 
ful as  you  are.  I  imagined  you  might  welcome  death  as 
the  termination  of  suffering  ;  but  I  was  not  prepared  to  see 
Annie  sitting  meekly  at  the  Redeemer's  feet,  and  practising 
with  delight  the  lessons  of  submission  and  trust  which  He 
teaches." 

Two  years  previous  to  this  conversation,  Ellen  had  be- 
come acquainted  with  Annie  Nichols,  whom  she  loved  for 
her  amiable  disposition  and  happy  temper.  Annie's  pres- 
ence, like  the  sun's,  was  the  precursor  of  smiles  and  the 
harbinger  of  joy.  Devoid  of  selfish  feeling,  and  devotedly 
attached  to  her  friends,  she  easily  endeared  herself  to  them, 
and  her  friendship  was  much  desired  by  the  young  of  both 
sexes.  Their  example  induced  her  to  expect  happiness 
from  crowds,  to  search  for  pleasure  amidst  the  glittering 
baubles  which  the  foolish  world  holds  alluringly  before  the 
eyes  of  the  pure  and  unsuspecting.  Excitement  destroyed 
the  healthful  balance  of  her  mind ;  it  became  obscured,  rest- 
less, and  possessed  an  increasing  desire  to  "  triumph  in  ex- 
ternals." She  learned  to  be  influenced  by  this  one's  smile 
and  that  one's  frown,  to  dread  the  censure  of  genteel 
society ;  so  she  rarely  exercised  her  own  judgment,  or  fol- 
lowed the  dictates  of  her  own  taste,  unqualified  by  the  sanc- 
tions of  popular  customs.  By  habitual  indulgence  in  the 
luxuries  of  life,  her  mind  became  dissipated,  and  thought. 


THE   INVALID.  55 

naturally  vigorous,  became  inert.  To  what  extent  her  soul 
would  have  submitted  to  such  tyranny  is  uncertain  ;  but  it 
did  submit,  till  nature  called  in  disease  to  inflict  the  sure 
penalty  threatened  for  the  violation  of  its  exact  laws. 

;     ^us  {Jxsofi  '•."" •;  Jrjwrrff'v  >»»•-  ?\w> •>  .iK'M'.'-. 
"  The  world,  well  known,  will  give  our  hearts  to  heaven." 

She  saw  the  grave  opening  before  her,  and  she  knew  that 
with  rapid  steps  she  was  descending  to  its  damp  shadowy 
vault.  Her  beauty  would  be  resigned  to  the  devouring 
worms ;  the  graces  of  her  person,  the  accomplishments  of 
her  mind,  would  they  disarm  him  of  the  scythe,  whose  office 
was  to  her  an  idea  of  terror  ?  She  plainly  saw  her  situa- 
tion, and  knew  that  her  mode  of  life  had  ill  fitted  her  for 
the  Christian  resignation  which  its  trials  demanded.  The 
prospect  suddenly  opened  to  her,  aroused  and  called  home 
the  scattered  energies  of  her  mind.  O  how  worthless  seemed 
to  her  then,  all  the  trappings  and  superficial  glitter  "which 
conceal  men's  real  glory  !"  How  utterly  contemptible  ap- 
peared the  vain  ambition  which  agitated  the  mass  of 
fashionable  life  !  She  knew  that  her  happiness  must  hence- 
forth be  derived  from  the  culture  of  the  heart,  from  com- 
munion with  those  elevated  and  spiritual  things  which 
satisfy  without  disgusting  the  possessor.  And  now,  for  the 
first  time  since  the  soft  tones  of  adulation  quickened  the 
pulsations  of  her  heart,  she  was  happy ;  with  no  wish  un- 
gratified,  no  desire  unanswered,  no  void  in  her  sensitive 
heart,  she  enjoyed  the  present,  and  the  future  she  knew  was 
in  the  hands  and  under  the  direction  of  Him,  to  whom  she 
had  given  her  warm  affections  and  chastened  love. 

Love  hallows  and  beautifies  everything,  and  when  the 
young  heart's  deepest  and  purest  love  is  yielded  unre- 
servedly to  Him,  who  is  the  loveliest  and  the  best  of  beings, 
the  effect  on  the  manners  and  countenance,  as  well  as  on  the 
morals  of  the  individual,  cannot  be  well  conceived  unless 
the  idea  is  assisted  by  observation.  Ellen  was  both  sur- 
prised and  gratified  to  witness  its  effect  on  her  friend  Annie. 
She  found  her  calmly  contemplating  the  event  which  would 
transport  her  to  a  world  of  purer,  higher  bliss,  where  no 
cloud  darkens  the  sky,  and  no  doubt  obscures  the  mind. 


OD  THE    INVALID. 

When  she  took  her  hand,  and  saw  her  smile  and  heard  her 
speak,  she  felt  as  if  she  was  in  the  presence  of  pure  spiritu- 
ality, of  one  sanctified  by  divine  influence. 

Standing,  as  Annie  did,  on  the  very  verge  of  mortal  life, 
with  its  silken  cords  all  around  her  heart,  and  its  flowery 
garlands  wreathed  about  her  fair,  young  brow,  prepared  to 
relinquish  its  delight  without  a  thought  of  regret,  and  sever 
without  a  murmur  its  strong  ties,  presented  Ellen  with  ideas 
so  sublime  that  she  was  awed  before  her.  The  invalid's 
voice  was  subdued  by  the  strong  emotions  which  possessed 
her  soul,  and  her  friend's  eye  was  fixed  unconsciously  on 
the  celestial  beauty  of  her  face.  She  spoke  cheerily  of  the 
attractions  of  the  upper  world,  the  darkness  of  which  was 
irradiated  by  her  luminous  faith  ;  she  talked  of  its  inhabi- 
tants and  their  employments  with  fervor  so  glowing  that  her 
rapt  auditor  felt  the  stir  of  viewless  wings  on  the  air,  and 
listened  to  catch  the  strains  to  which  beatified  souls  strike 
their  aerial  harps  in  adoration  of  Him  whose  smile  consti- 
tutes their  bliss. 

Ellen  was  melted ;  heaven  was  no  longer  a  gilded  place 
far  off  in  the  distant  sky,  ruled  by  unapproachable  majesty  ; 
she  felt  the  reality  of  the  Saviour's  words, — "  the  kingdom 
of  heaven  is  within  you."  Tears,  of  which  she  was  almost 
unconscious,  ran  down  her  cheeks  as  she  replied, —  "Annie. 
you  have  unveiled  the  glory  and  the  loveliness  of  the  future 
life;  O  that  I  could  enter  with  you,  and  join  in  the  song 
which  is  raised  to  Him  that  sitteth  on  the  throne,  and  to  the 
Lamb  forever  and  ever.  But  you  will  only  precede  me, 
Annie ;  I  will  wait  patiently  till  our  Father  shall  send  his 
kind  messenger  to  loose  the  ties  of  existence,  and  free  the 
prisoned  spirit.  What,  Annie,  but  this  full  confidence  in 
God,  could  sustain  us?  what  but  this  belief  that  he  watches 
over  us  with  sleepless  vigilance,  and  directs  our  steps  with 
unerring  wisdom  ?  O  what  a  precious  privilege  it  is  to  love 
God  with  all  the  heart,  as  our  best,  dearest  friend  !  to  con- 
fide to  his  bosom  all  our  thoughts,  our  ardent  wishes,  our 
lofty  aspirations,  and  to  feel  that  if  our  requests  are  denied, 
it  will  be  in  the  fulness  of  paternal  love  !" 

Annie's  response  is  recorded  at  the  commencement  of  this 
article. 


THE   INVALID.  57 

"  I  had  a  dread  of  consumption,"  said  Annie,  "  and  even 
after  I  felt  it  creeping  through  my  vitals,  I  endeavored  to 
drive  the  idea  from  my  mind  by  greater  levity.  But  when 
fully  convinced  that  it  had  established  itself  in  my  bosom, 
so  strongly  as  to  defy  medical  skill,  I  no  longer  disregarded 
its  decree.  By  contemplating  death,  the  future  state,  and 
the  design  of  this  primary  existence,  I  have  become  recon- 
ciled to  the  destiny  which  awaits  me,  hard  and  fearful  as 
my  former  gay  associates  think  it.  I  am  not  impatient  to 
be  introduced  into  a  better  state  of  existence,  but  when 
God  shall  please  to  take  me  thither,  I  hope  I  shall  be  glad 
to  go.  I  am  not  sick  of  life  ;  but  I  am  willing,  at  his  bid- 
ding, to  exchange  it  for  one  in  which  I  can  more  sensibly 
feel  his  presence.  I  think  that  since  I  have  been  consuming 
by  this  lingering  disease,  I  have  enjoyed  more  happiness 
than  I  found  during  the  whole  of  my  previous  life.  It  is 
certainly  good  for  me  that  I  have  been  afflicted.  Before,  a 
cloudy  day  or  a  misty  morning  was  sufficient  to  check  en- 
joyment ;  now,  I  can  '  see  God  in  clouds  or  hear  him  in 
wind,'  as  quickly  as  in  the  jocund  sky  and  the  smiling 
flowerets,  which  spring  up  all  over  the  green  earth,  and 
write  on  the  sunny  hills  in  characters  of  floral  beauty,  the 
everlasting  truth — God  is  love." 

"  Oh,  Annie,  dear,  I  must  not  stay;  you  talk  so  much,  I 
think  it  aggravates  your  cough,"  said  Ellen,  as  she  per- 
ceived that  her  efforts  and  suggestions  afforded  Annie  no 
relief.  Her  heart  ached  in  witnessing  the  sufferings  of  her 
friend ;  she  thought  of  the  fortitude  and  holy  trust  which 
sustained  her  in  her  afflictions,  and  veneration  mingled  with 
the  love  she  gave  her.  Annie  replied  as  before. — 

"It  is  not  very  bad,  dear;  but  I  think  I  have  talked 
rather  too  much.  I  will  rest  now,  and  you  will  come  in  to- 
morrow, Ellen." 

Ellen  promised,  and  kissing  the  invalid,  she  left  her  with 
a  blessing  on  her  lip. 

MIMOSA. 


58  VISIT    TO   LOUISBOURG,    CAPE    BRETON. 

For  the  Magnolia. 

VISIT  TO  LOUISBOURG,   CAPE  BRETON. 

FOUR  long  months  had  been  passed  in  the  harbors  of 
sterile  Labrador.  To  the  fifty-fifth  degree  of  latitude  had 
we  coasted  this  arctic  land  ;  delaying  at  the  fishing  grounds 
of  L'Anse  Amour,  Domino,  Indian  Title,  Long  Island  and 
Brig  Harbor. 

From  the  mild  and  beautiful  May  of  New  England  an 
invalid  had  gone  to  the  wintry  waves  and  coasts  of  the 
Gulf  of  St.  Lawrence.  And  while  the  glory  and  promise  of 
summer  were  visiting  the  land  of  his  home,  until  the  ripe- 
ness and  wealth  of  autumn  were  dwelling  there,  he  lived  an 
unwilling  exile  among  perpetual  snows  and  icebergs.  These 
giant  and  chilling  ambassadors  from  the  realm  of  perpetual 
winter  were  continually  passing  us  in  numbers  and  freedom 
that  proclaimed  our  proximity  to  their  home.  The  contest 
of  summer  with  winter,  through  the  months  of  July  and 
August,  had  resulted  in  the  discomfiture  of  genial  heat — the 
snow  unto  the  last  usurped  a  resting-place.  And  who 
would  forbid  so  fitting  a  garb  to  such  a  land  '?  The  face  of 
the  country  was  rugged  rock  broken  into  mountains.  The 
shallow  soil  was  but  the  decay  of  mosses  and  scanty  grasses 
mixed  with  the  debris  of  the  rock  bare  to  the  northern 
weather ;  vegetation  was  most  meagre,  comprising  heavy 
mosses,  dwarf  specimens  of  pines,  coarse  grasses  ;  a  few  in- 
sipid berries  were  all  the  offering  made  to  the  sustenance  of 
man.  Thus  driven  to  the  sea  for  a  subsistence,  a  few  huts 
at  the  water's  brink  were  his  only  habitations. 

Such  was  the  soul-darkening  scenery  that  opened  upon 
the  eye  at  sunrise,  and  such  it  was  that  mocked  the  sun  in 
his  decline ;  the  glare  then  overspreading  rock,  snow  and 
ice,  seeming  their  smile  of  victory  over  the  long  effort  of  the 
king  of  day. 

Early  and  late  in  the  season  of  day  in  that  clime — in 
rain  and  fog — in  cold  and  wind — had  I  toiled  in  my  rugged 
occupation  on  the  deck  of  the  schooner. 


VISIT    TO    LOUISBOURG,    CAPE    BRETON.  59 

My  associates  were  specimens  of  the  noble-heartedness  of 
the  sailor,  but  equally  of  his  roughness,  profanity,  and 
obscenity.  Doomed  to  be  one  among  them,  it  gave  a  too 
sensitive  mind  a  hint  of  the  curse  of  companionship  in  the 
abodes  of  punishment. 

All  the  circumstances  averted  the  boyish  spirit  to  the 
beauteous  scenery,  the  comfortable  occupations,  and  the 
moral  and  friendly  citizens  of  a  distant  home.  While  sleep 
liberated  it  from  connection  with  actual  life,  it  lived  in  vivid 
dreams  among  the  verdant  prospects  and  endeared  friends 
of  New  England.  *  *  * 

Our  reluctant  toil  at  last  was  done.  At  midnight,  the 
close  of  the  18th  of  September,  the  skipper's  harsh  voice 
broke  my  dreamy  slumbers — "All  hands — Ahoy! — Get 
under  way."  I  bounded  from  my  berth,  and  right  cheerily, 
that  night,  did  I  hoist  on  the  halyards  and  heave  at  the 
windlass.  A  few  moments  and  we  were  homeward-bound, 
darkness  enshrouding  Labrador  as  in  the  gloom  of  the 
past. 

For  a  week  we  had  been  baffled  by  calms  and  head- 
winds till  our  spirits  had  sunk  at  the  long  intervention  and 
frightful  uncertainties  foreboded  between  us  and  our  haven. 
On  the  evening  of  the  twenty-fourth,  while  I  was  pacing 
the  decks  on  watch,  with  faintly  rising  hopes,  a  charming 
breeze  had  borne  us  up  to  the  light  of  Skatari,  but  there 
spell-bound  by  opposing  fate  it  left  us ;  and  after  a  brief 
calm  was  succeeded  by  a  strong  head  wind.  Twice  in  the 
night  had  "  all  hands"  been  roused  to  "  tack  ship."  Through 
all  the  succeeding  day  had  we  struggled  with  the  adverse 
wind,  and  gained,  during  the  night  and  the  day,  but  five 
leagues  in  our  course.  The  lighthouse  of  Louisbourg  had 
been  in  plain  view  during  the  day,  and  our  captain  had  re- 
solved to  seek  a  refuge  in  the  harbor.  By  the  aid  of  an  old 
history  I  resuscitated  my  memory  of  the  interesting  siege 
and  capture  of  this  place,  in  1758;  and  anticipated  a  trifle 
of  interest  in  looking  upon  a  place  made  memorable  by  the 
history  of  war.  But  as  we  neared  the  land  this  was  for- 
gotten in  the  bright  contrast  that  was  creating  upon  the 
sensibilities  of  the  heart. 

I  gazed  from  the  masthead  as  the  dim  prospect  of  the  land 


60  EDITOR'S  TABLE. 

proffered  itself.  By  and  by  I  could  recline  upon  the  gun- 
wale and  satiate  the  eye  and  the  heart  with  the  enchanting 
prospect  which  was  crowding  pace  by  pace  upon  the  view. 
A  land  of  more  level  and  regular  outline  at  first  presented 
itself.  Then  the  certainty  of  vegetation  and  of  human  habi- 
tation proclaimed  itself  in  the  dark  veil  that  overspread  the 
declivities,  the  plats  of  variegated  color  that  chequered  the 
plains  and  the  cottages — scattered  as  spots  along  the  hill- 
sides. 

Eagerly  did  I  gather  every  new  evidence  of  beauty  which 
our  approach  permitted  to  the  view.  That  darkened  ap- 
pearance of  the  hills  soon  became  forests — those  plats,  oat- 
fields — those  spots  on  the  hill-sides,  cottages  shining  in 
simple  white,  just  as  they  are  found  among  the  hills  and 
valleys  of  New  England.  Beauty,  the  unaffected  beauty 
of  simple  nature,  soothed  the  worn-out  heart.  Dejection 
became  exhilarated,  and  I  was  well  nigh  regarding  this  land 
as  my  home. 

[To  be  continued.] 



EDITOR'S  TABLE. 

SKETCHES     OF    LOWELL,     MASS. 

IN  the  number  for  this  month  our  readers  are  furnished 
with  a  very  accurate  view  of  the  city  of  Lowell  as  it 
now  is — with  its  numerous  manufacturing  establishments, 
churches,  and  other  public  buildings. 

To  a  visitor  who  has  not  seen  the  place  for  the  last 
twenty-five  years,  the  scene  must  appear  very  novel.  A 
large  city  bursts  upon  his  view  now,  where  then  it  was 
only  dotted  with  a  few  farm  houses.  His  attention  is 
attracted  with  the  hum  of  a  bustling  city — the  roar  of  mills, 
the  buzzing  of  thousands  of  spindles,  and  the  whirling  of  as 
many  wheels.  If  he  looks  out  upon  the  streets  between  the 
hours  of  12  and  1  o'clock,  he  will  behold  its  sidewalks 
crowded  with  hundreds  of  young  and  beautiful  females,  the 
fair  representatives  of  most  of  the  New  England  states  who 
have  left  parents,  brothers,  sisters,  and  perhaps  lovers  at 
their  own  quiet  homes,  and  neighborhoods,  for  the  purpose 


EDITOR'S  TABLE.  61 

of  obtaining  a  little  ready  cash,  and  then  to  return,  and 
again  enjoy  the  quietude  of  their  own  rural  homes. 

The  site  upon  which  this  city  now  stands,  two  hundred 
years  ago  was  the  great  emporium  of  the  Indian  territory  in 
the  east — the  head  quarters  of  one  of  the  five  great  tribes  of 
Indians  which  were  found  by  our  Pilgrim  fathers  in  New 
England.  It  was  the  capital  of  the  Pawtuckets,  an  im- 
mense tribe,  numbering  twelve  thousand  souls. 

They  were  invited  here  on  account  of  the  abundant  sup- 
ply of  fish  which  the  Merrimack  and  Concord  rivers  then 
furnished.  It  is  here  that  these  two  rivers  meet,  forming 
an  angle.  In  this  angle,  where  the  city  of  Lowell  now 
stands,  the  Indian  built  his  wigwam  ;  and  out  of  these  beau- 
tiful rivers  obtained  an  abundance  of  fish  of  the  most 
inviting  kind,  such  as  salmon,  shad,  alewives,  sturgeon, 
&c.  ;  the  latter  of  which  were  so  plenty  that  the  Indians 
christened  one  of  the  rivers  by  the  name  of  Merrimack, 
which,  in  their  language,  signifies  sturgeon.  The  name  is 
yet  retained ;  but  the  sturgeon,  like  the  Indians,  have  long 
since  disappeared. 

The  history  of  Wamesit,  which  is  the  Indian  name  for 
the  ground  on  which  the  city  of  Lowell  stands,  is  as  deeply 
interesting  as  is  the  history  of  this  modern  city,  and  could 
we  have  the  particulars  of  it  as  we  have  of  the  latter,  it 
would  be  infinitely  more  so.  The  ground  which  we  now 
occupy,  then  teemed  with  human  life.  Another  race  of 
human  beings,  with  similar  physical  and  intellectual  facul- 
ties with  our  own — the  descendants  of  one  common  parent 
with  ourselves,  though  of  different  manners,  customs,  hab- 
its, and  language,  inhabited  in  multitudes  these  valleys  and 
hills  long  before  the  white  man  ever  set  his  foot  upon  these 
shores. 

The  boundaries  of  Wamesit  singularly  coincide  with 
its  present  dimensions.  A  ditch  which  was  dug  by  the 
Indians,  probably  in  1665,  to  designate  the  ground  which 
was  then  called  Wamesit,  is  distinctly  traceable  to  this  day, 
and  does  not  materially  vary  from  the  line  and  extent  of 
Lowell. 

When  Wamesit  was  first  discovered  it  contained  a  popu- 
lation of  three  thousand  souls,  and  doubtless  at  some 


62  EDITOR'S  TABLE. 

seasons  of  the  year  their  numbers  were  greatly  augmented. 
Upon  these  sons  of  the  forest  the  light  of  science,  civiliza- 
tion, and  revelation,  never  shone.  And  yet  they  were  of 
the  same  family  with  ourselves — susceptible  of  joy  or  grief, 
of  pain  or  pleasure,  and,  like  the  rest  of  mankind,  had  to 
die,  and  go  into  eternity ;  and  will  appear  at  the  judg- 
ment, when  the  dead,  small  and  great,  shall  stand  before 
God. 

But  how  comparatively  small  their  accountability  when 
contrasted  with  ours.  They  had  neither  schools,  churches, 
ministers  of  God's  religion,  nor  the  Holy  Scriptures.  They 
were  emphatically  the  children  of  nature  :  and  if  they 
approached  God  it  was  by  travelling  through  the  dark  and 
intricate  mazes  of  nature  up  to  nature's  God. 

It  is  not  then  surprising  that  their  views  of  the  Great 
Spirit  should  have  been  confused  and  indistinct.  That 
they  should  pay  homage  to  the  sun,  moon,  and  stars — that 
they  should  make  offerings  to  the  rolling  thunders,  and 
awed  by  the  majesty  of  Heaven's  artillery  should  prostrate 
themselves  upon  the  earth,  and  supplicate  for  mercy  from 
that  being  whose  hoarse  voice  they  supposed  they  heard, 
and  whose  eyes  were  like  flames  of  fire.  In  this  state  of 
darkness  the  poor  Indian  lived,  and  with  but  an  uncertain 
notion  of  God  and  eternity,  he  laid  himself  down  and  died. 
The  dust  of  thousands  of  these  savages  is  deposited  on  the 
banks  of  our  rivers,  there  to  remain  until  the  trump  of  God 
shall  sound,  when  the  red  man  shall  live  again. 

We  should,  however,  remark  that  early  as  1653  there 
were  efforts  made  to  convert  them  to  Christianity.  The 
Gospel  of  Christ  was  preached  to  them  by  Rev.  John  Eliot, 
the  "Apostle  to  the  Indians."  A  log  church  was  built,  tra- 
dition says,  on  the  height  of  land  on  Appleton  street.  Here 
Eliot  preached  Jesus  and  the  resurrection  to  as  many  as 
would  attend — with  what  success  does  not  appear  ;  but  it  is 
to  be  hoped  that  the  Gospel  was  the  power  of  God  to  the 
salvation  of  some,  and  that  in  the  great  day  that  honored 
servant  of  God  will  have  stars  from  Wamesit  to  brighten 
his  crown. 

Reader,  pause  a  moment,  and  think  of  the  changing  world 
in  which  you  live  !  The  words  of  the  evangelical  prophet 


EDITOR'S  TABLE.  63 

:/ 

forcibly  strike  the  mind  :  "  The  voice  said  cry.  And  he 
said,  What  shall  I  cry  1  All  flesh  is  as  grass,  and  all  the 
goodliness  thereof  is  as  the  flower  of  the  field  :  the  grass 
withereth,  the  flower  fadeth  :  because  the  spirit  of  the  Lord 
bloweth  upon  it :  surely  the  people  is  as  grass."  These 
words  are  applicable  to  all ;  but  especially  to  our  prede- 
cessors on  this  soil.  Where  are  they  now  ?  Less  than  two 
hundred  years  ago  these  valleys,  hills,  and  rivers,  swarmed 
with  the  aborigines  of  this  country.  The  curling  smoke 
was  ascending  from  their  wigwams  in  clouds — their  canoes 
were  skipping  upon  the  bosoms  of  the  Merrimack  and  Con- 
cord, and  with  their  rude  implements  for  fishery  were  draw- 
ing from  these  beautiful  rivers  their  winter's  stores — while 
their  sons  and  daughters,  with  their  bows  and  arrows,  were 
ranging  the  sturdy  and  dense  forest  around  in  quest  of 
game.  nuts,  and  wild  fruit. 

In  only  a  few  years  they  had  dwindled  away  to  two  hun- 
dred and  fifty  men,  besides  women  and  children.  In  a  few 
years  more  they  gave  up  their  right  to  their  lands ;  the 
white  man  having  crowded  and  pushed  them  off,  so  that, 
finally,  these  natives  wholly  disappeared. 

Strange  as  it  may  seem,  it  is  said  that  they  evaporated 
before  the  light  of  civilization,  like  the  dew  beneath  the 
beams  of  the  rising  sun.  But  did  the  light  of  civilization 
annihilate  them  1  We  think  not.  It  was  the  cruelty 
oppression,  and  bad  example  of  the  white  man.  Hud  the 
native  sons  of  our  soil  been  treated  by.  the  white  man  with 
the  Christian  kindness  and  prudence  ot'a  William  Prim,  we 
think  that  they  might  have  been  living  among  us  to  this 
day  as  our  brethren — a  numerous  und  energetic  people. 
But  by  the  repeated  and  unprovoked  attacks  upon  them 
they  at  last  became  exasperated  ;  and  naturally  implacable 
and  revengeful,  they  assumed  a  warlike  attitude,  and  the  con- 
test being  unequal,  they  fell.  Powder  and  ball — the  sword 
and  alcohol — licentiousness  and  oppression,  have  all  con- 
spired to  grind  them  to  dust.  And  so  complete  is  their  de- 
struction that  not  a  man  of  them  is  left  to  tell  the  sad  story 
of  their  fate,  and  there  are  probably  hundreds  occupying 
their  grounds  here  who  never  even  saw  an  Indian. 

[To  be  continued.] 


MY  BELOVED,  WILT  THOU  OWN  ME? 


ENGLISH    MELODY. 

•'#". 


WORDS    BY    MRS.   DANA. 


My    Be  -  lov  -  ed,     wilt   tliou   own  me,  When  my  hf.irt  is      all     de  -  -  fiicd  ? 


rJHES  SBES^HS 


1~&  ----  1~  ®  —&—I—X 


Though  thy        dy  -  -  ing       love    has         won     me,     Though    thy        dy  -  -  ing 

$£-    -=-r-     -hi -—  r-     rhrH hri 


love      has        won     me,       Can       I        deem     thee        rec  -  -  on  -  -  -  -  ciled  ? 


2.   My  Beloved,  pass  before  me, 

Never  from  my  sight  remove. 
Many  waters,  flowing  o'er  me. 
Cannot  quench  my  burning  love. 

"\.   My  Beloved,  now  endue  me 

With  thine  own  attractive  charms  ; 
May  tliy  spirit  sweetly  woo  me  ; 
Fold  me  in  thy  sheltering  arms. 


4.    My  Beloved,  safely  hide  me 

In  the  drear  and  cloudy  day; 
Ere  the  windy  storm  has  tried  me, 
Hide  my  trembling  soul,  I  pray. 

f     My  Beloved,  kindly  take  me 

To  thy  sympathizing  breast; 

Never,  never  more  forsake  me ; 

Guide  me  to  the  land  of  rest. 


'  .I'    '   .^rk 


THE  SWAN. 

/  .'.        -M-M    "'  ir  {  \j"  'r~J  '• 

THERE  are  supposed  to  be  two  kinds  of  these  birds,  the 
tame  and  the  wild,  their  color  and  anatomy  differing  from 
each  other.  The  tame  swan  is  a  very  silent  bird,  but  the 
wild  is  very  noisy,  and  some  wonderful  stories  are  told  about 
their  musical  powers,  all  of  which  are  probably  fabulous. 
Their  longevity  is  perhaps  unparalleled  among  the  feathered 
tribes.  Some  say  that  they  live  three  hundred  years.  Mr. 
Goldsmith  says,  "No  bird  makes  a  more  indifferent  figure 
upon  the  land,  or  a  more  beautiful  one  in  the  water,  than 
the  swan.  When  it  ascends  from  its  favorite  element,  its 
motions  are  awkward,  and  its  neck  is  stretched  forward  with 
an  air  of  stupidity  ;  but  when  it  is  seen  smoothly  sailing 
along  the  water,  commanding  a  thousand  graceful  attitudes, 
moving  at  pleasure  with  the  smallest  effort  ;  when  it  '  proudly 
rows  its  state,'  as  Milton  has  it,  '  with  arched  neck  between 
its  white  wings  mantling,'  there  is  not  a  more  beautiful 
figure  in  nature."  The  truth  is,  water  is  their  native  and 
most  favorite  element,  and  here  they  are  at  home.  It  is 
equally  true  that  we  can  never  appear  beautiful,  if  we 
depart  from  that  sphere  of  life  in  which  God  has  called  us 
to  walk. 

• 


THE  CHRISTIAN'S  D AUGHTER-POCAHONTAS, 

BY     G.     P.     MORRIS 

UPON  the  barren  sand 

A  single  captive  stood, 
Around  him  came  with  bow  and  band, 

The  red-men  of  the  wood. 
Like  him  of  old,  his  doom  he  hears, 

Reek-bound  on  ocean's  rim — 


66  ELLEN    WHARTON. 

The  chieftain's  daughter  knelt  in  tears 

And  breathed  a  prayer  for  him. 
Above  his  head  in  air 

The  savage  war-club  swung  ; 
The  frantic  girl,  in  wild  despair, 

Her  arms  around  him  flung. 
Then  shook  the  warriors  of  the  shade 

Like  leaves  on  aspen  limb, 
Subdued  by  the  heroic  maid 

Who  breathed  a  prayer  for  him. 
"  Unbind  him  !"  gasped  the  chief, 

"  It  is  your  king's  decree  !  " 
He  kissed  away  the  tears  of  grief, 

And  set  the  captive  free. 
'Tis  ever  thus,  when  in  life's  storm 

Hope's  star  to  man  grows  dim, 
An  angel  kneels  in  woman's  form, 

And  breathes  a  prayer  for  him. 


ELLEN  WHARTON. 

[Continued.] 

"  SPEAK,  dear  father,  I  am  waiting  to  hear  you,"  said  Ellen, 
striving  to  be  cheerful. 

"  Well  then,  Ellen — a-hem — I  wish  to  speak  in  reference 
to  Frank  Arland." 

"  Well,  father." 

"  Well,  Ellen,"  said  he,  biting  his  lips  in  embarrassment, 
not  knowing  how  to  begin  the  subject.  "  I  do  not  like 
Frank's  visits  here.  I  hope  he  is  not  so  presumptuous  as  to 
think  of  aspiring  for  your  hand,  my  daughter  ?" 

"And  why  not,  father?  does  he  not  possess  uncommon 
talents  and  ability  ?" 

'"  That  he  is  a  talented  and  respectable  young  man  I  admit; 
I  never  had  a  steadier  or  more  industrious  one  in  my  em- 
ploy; he  has  ever  shown  himself  possessed  of  integrity, 
morality,  and  unwearied  perseverance." 

"  And  surely  these  are  praiseworthy  virtues,  in  any  young 
man,  father,"  said  Ellen. 

"Yes — yes,  Ellen,  they  are;  but  then  you  know  he's 
poor." 


ELLEN   WHARTON.  67 

"  There  is  nothing  very  criminal  in  that,"  said  Ellen,  with 
a  faint  smile. 

"Nothing  criminal,  I  know.  Frank  would  be  a  good 
match  for  an  equal,  but  he  must  never  think  of  marrying 
into  the  ancient  family  of  the  Whartons." 

"  Perhaps  he  will  become  more  worthy  in  a  few  years,  if 
he  is  as  prudent  and  industrious  as  he  has  ever  proved  him- 
self to  be,"  said  Ellen,  in  the  suppressed  tone  of  one  who  is 
about  to  breathe  forth  the  last  hope. 

"  Never  ! "  said  Wharton  angrily  ;  "  the  honor  of  my  house 
must  be  supported  by  proper  alliances ;  he  who  marries  into 
my  family,  must  be  my  equal  in  wealth  and  rank." 

"  Then  there  is  no  hope — no  alternative,"  said  she  in 
despair. 

"None,"  said  her  father  sternly;  "so  miss,  from  this 
time  forever  banish  from  your  mind  all  hope  of  a  union  with 
this  poor  plebeian." 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  father,  unsay  those  fatal  words — 
recall  that  cruel  sentence,  and  not  forever  doom  me  to  wretch- 
edness ! "  said  Ellen,  almost  unconscious  of  what  she  said, 
for  his  words  came  like  a  knell  of  hope  to  her  shrinking  ear. 

"  Nay,  dear  Ellen,"  said  Wharton,  more  tenderly,  alarmed 
by  her  agitation;  "not  wretched,  bu,t  happy,  I  would  make 
you.  You  will  soon  forget  him  ;  get  rid  of  this  foolish 
notion  ;  surely  you  do  not,  cannot  love  him;  you  will  find  it 
a  mere  phantom  of  the  brain — it  affects  not  the  heart.  So 
let  me  see  no  tears ;  you  must  tell  him  not  to  call  again  ;  it 
requires  that  you  should  be  explicit  and  decided — do  yon 
understand  7" 

"  I  will  do  all  that  is  required  of  me,"  she  replied,  in  tones 
so  sad  and  submissive  that  they  touched  her  father's  heart. 
He  looked  upon  the  pale  face  of  her  whose  heart  he  had 
crushed,  whose  hopes  he  had  blasted,  and  read  there  sub- 
mission. He  was  about  to  recall  what  he  had  said,  when 
pride  again  triumphed  over  his  better  feelings. 

"Just  like  my  own  Ellen,  always  so  kind,"  he  said,  ten- 
derly embracing  her;  "  I  was  right  in  thinking  you  would 
obey  your  father,  and  not  disgrace  yourself  and  friends  by 
this  foolish  attachment."  Finding  she  did  not  reply,  and 
thinking  there  had  been  enough  said,  he  arose  and  left  the 


68  ELLEN    WHARTON. 

room.  He  had  exacted  the  long  wished-for  promise,  and  he 
knew  she  would  not  break  it.  Yet  he  was  not  at  ease ; 
that  pale  convulsed  face — the  white  lips  moving,  but  speech- 
less— the  eyes  glittering  with  unnatural  lustre,  and  every 
lineament  of  the  face  stamped  with  desolation  and  despair, 
as  her  father  left  her,  haunted  him  like  a  guilty  thought. 
He  endeavored  to  justify  himself  by  thinking  it  was  for  her 
good — that  she  would  forget  him,  marry  some  one  of  high 
standing  in  life,  and  yet  bless  him  for  what  she  now  suffered. 
Mistaken  man  !  how  little  knew  he  of  woman's  love  ! 

"  Man's  love  lives  but  with  hope ;  while  woman's  heart 

Still  echoes  to  the  music  of  the  past." 

"  A  love  all  sacrifice  and  suffering  ;  a  star 

That  gathers  lustre  from  the  gloom  of  night ; 

A  martyr's  fond  idolatry  ;  a  faith  baptized  in  tears,  to  sorrow  consecrated." 

As  soon  as  she  was  left  alone,  she  repaired  immediately  to 
her  chamber,  not  however  to  indulge  in  useless  grief — for 
useless  she  knew  it  would  be.  She  knew  her  father's  dis- 
position was  such,  that  he  would  sooner,  as  dearly  as  he 
loved  his  daughters,  prepare  with  his  own  hands  their  wind- 
ing-sheet— lay  them  in  their  graves — than  they  should  bring 
dishonor  upon  the  family  by  an  alliance  beneath  them ;  and 
such  was  his  love  of  greatness,  there  could  be  no  worth,  no 
respectability,  no  claim  to  notice,  in  his  opinion,  where  there 
were  not  riches  and  honors  to  ensure  it.  She  had  always 
loved  her  father  a  thousand  times  better  than  herself;  this 
was  the  first  time,  since  her  remembrance,  he  had  ever 
spoken  unkindly  to  her ;  she  had  always  felt  that  she  could 
make  almost  any  sacrifice  to  render  him  happy;  "but  ought 
I,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  sacrifice  my  dearest  earthly  hopes 
to  a  mistaken  sentiment  deeply  rooted  in  the  minds  of  my 
father  and  sister '?"  Again  she  strove  to  reflect :  he  was  her 
only  earthly  parent — from  earliest  infancy  he  had  been  her 
sole  guide.  She  thought  of  his  sorrow  should  she  disobey 
him  ;  "  and  shall  I  sacrifice,"  said  she,  "  his  happiness,  the 
honor  of  the  family,  to  the  indulgence  of  an  attachment 
which  they  disapprove?  Oh  !  no — it  must  not  be;  my  prom- 
ise, I  will  keep  it  sacredly — I  will  resign  my  love  to  the 
peace  of  those  to  whom  I  am  connected  by  nature's  ties. 


ELLEN    WHARTON.  69 

Yes,  I  will  write  to  him,  bid  him  see  me  no  more,  though 
my  heart  break  in  the  attempt ;  but  I  will  tell  him  my  father 
forbids  it,  for  I  would  not  have  him  think  I  am  changed. 
No.  that  will  not  do,"  she  said  after  a  moment's  reflection  ; 
"it  would  be  bidding  him  cherish  a  hope  that  can  never  be 
realized ;  it  will  be  better  for  him  to  think  me  actuated  by 
the  feelings  of  my  own  heart ;  he  will  then  forever  despise 
the  false-hearted  being  who  could  thus  unfeelingly  trifle  with 
his  love — break  a  solemn  promise  made  in  the  presence  of 
Heaven  and  all  the  shining  hosts  above — forget  me  and  marry 
another  and  be  happy."  She  accordingly  addressed  a  note 
to  him,  cold,  formal,  decisive,  bidding  him  release  her  from 
a  vow  as  ill-assorted  as  rash ;  she  bade  him  seek  no  inter- 
view, for  it  would  not  be  granted — to  ask  no  explanation, 
for  she  had  none  to  make ;  said  she  had  no  cause  to  be 
offended  at  him  ;  had  heard  nothing  to  his  disadvantage ;  she 
had  considered  it  long  and  well,  and  this  was  the  result. 
After  she  had  finished  it  her  heart  became  calm,  but  oh  ! 
how  utterly  hopeless.  She  threw  herself  upon  a  couch  in 
her  bed-chamber  to  seek  repose. 

The  morning  found  her  asleep,  yet  how  much  of  the  heart's 
unrest  was  betrayed  in  her  appearance :  her  breath  came 
painfully,  and  a  sickly  white  lay  about  her  mouth  and  beat- 
ing temples ;  but  a  feverish  red  burned  in  either  cheek,  and 
though  she  seemed  to  sleep  soundly,  tears  were  continually 
streaming  from  beneath  her  closed  eyelids  to  the  embroidered 
cushion. 

At  length  she  awoke,  arose  languidly,  and  with  a  dizzi- 
ness in  the  head,  and  a  pain  about  the  heart,  rang  the  bell, 
and  gave  the  servant  the  note  she  had  written  in  the  night. 
She  impatiently  waited  the  return  of  her  messenger — at  last 
she  heard  him  ascending  the  stairs — she  opened  the  door, 
took  a  note,  in  which  was  simply  written,  "Be  it  as  you 
desire." 

"  Then  all  is  over,"  she  said,  throwing  herself  in  despair 
upon  a  seat;  "  henceforth  we  must  meet  only  as  strangers." 
Yet  no  reproaches  upon  him  who  had  dealt  this  dreadful 
blow  escaped  her  lips :  no  bitter  or  stern  feelings  mingled 
with  the  agony  of  the  moment ;  her  heart  was  breaking, 
but  it  was  gentle  and  patient  in  its  sufferings.  It  was  pain- 


70  ELLEN    WHARTON. 

ful  to  look  into  the  convulsed  contenance  of  that  noble  suf- 
fering girl.  She  knew  she  had  deceived  into  misery  the  idol 
of  her  heart's  worship,  but  she  had  the  last  consolation  of 
the  unhappy — a  consciousness  of  having  done  right. 

Before  Arland  left  his  room  that  morning,  a  letter  was 
brought  him  ;  he  knew  the  writing,  and  a  smile  of  pleasure 
lighted  up  his  countenance  when  he  opened  it ;  but  oh  !  how 
quickly  it  vanished,  as  he  read  its  contents.  He  examined 
the  writing  over  and  over  again,  to  see  if  he  could  not  dis- 
cover traces  of  agitation  :  he  could  discern  none,  the  writing 
was  even  more  than  usually  distinct.  After  reading  it  the 
second  time,  to  convince  himself  that  it  was  even  so,  he  laid 
it  down,  with  a  sigh  amounting  almost  to  a  groan,  covering 
his  face  with  his  hands ;  his  fine  brow  became  paler,  and 
contracted  in  spite  of  his  efforts  to  restrain  his  grief.  At 
length  he  started  from  his  seat,  with  hands  clenched  forcibly, 
paced  the  apartments  like  one  in  despair,  then  snatched  a 
pen,  wrote  the  reply,  delivered  it  to  the  wondering  servant, 
took  his  hat  and  immediately  left  the  house. 

Five  years  had  passed  since  the  foregoing  recital.  Ellen 
Wharton  sat  alone  in  her  chamber ;  but  how  altered  !  Disease 
and  sorrow  had  made  a  sad  inroad  in  her  form.  A  stranger 
would  have  thought  her  much  older  than  she  was,  though 
there  was  no  wreck  of  beauty — no  sharpness  of  any  finely 
chiselled  feature,  but  there  was  an  inward  care  that  rarely 
shades  the  brow  of  one  so  young ;  her  cheek  was  pale  and 
thin,  and  a  certain  sadness  in  her  soul-speaking  eyes  that 
awoke  your  sympathy.  The  sunshine  of  her  smile  was 
gone,  but  an  expression  of  calm  apathy  had  settled  on  her 
brow,  which  rendered  her  more  lovely  if  possible  than  when 
the  alternations  of  feeling  flitted  there  like  the  lights  and 
shadows  of  a  moonlight  landscape.  A  pearly  satin  adorned 
her  person,  orange  blossoms  gleamed  in  her  hair — it  was  her 
sister's  bridal  eve,  and  she  was  bridesmaid. 

What  various  visions  swept  through  her  mind  as  she  sat 
there !  The  past  claimed  a  sigh — the  present  an  anxious 
hope.  She  loved  her  sister,  and  could  not  endure  the  thought 
of  her  being  united  to  one  so  ill  calculated  to  make  her 
happy  as  was  Harry  Lambert,  for  to  him  she  was  to  be 
married. 


ELLEN   WHARTON.  71 

r  Five  years  had  passed  since  Frank  Arland  left  her  father's 
employ,  since  then  she  had  heard  nothing  from  him. 
"  Would  to  Heaven  I  knew  where  thou  art,  my  poor  Frank ! " 
she  exclaimed ;  "probably  thou  hast  forgotten  me,  or  if  I  am 
remembei'edj  it  is  with  bitter,  stern  feelings.  It  is  in  vain  I 
have  striven  to  eradicate  from  my  heart  my  love  for  thee ; 
I  had  hoped  to  have  overcome  it,  and  resolved 

'  To  bind  my  wild  affection  as  with  a  mighty  chain,' 

to  live  for  others,  and  endeavor  to  forget  thee,  but  this  I  can- 
not do — nay, 

*  In  the  bright  morning,  noon,  or  starry  night, 

One  thought  my  bosom  fills — it  is  of  thee  ! 

Thy  image  dwells  within  my  memory's  deep  recess.'  " 

Considerable  bustle,  as  is  usual  on  such  occasions,  perva- 
ded the  house ;  a  travelling  carriage  was  at  the  door  to  bear 
the  bride  away  from  the  home  of  her  youth,  the  loved  and 

"  Treasured  scenes  of  her  early  days." 

The  rooms  were  brilliantly  lighted,  and  crowded  with  the 
gay  and  fashionable  of  both  sexes,  and  there,  amid  the  con- 
gratulations and  compliments  of  the  heartless  crowd,  the 
beautiful  Laura  Wharton  became  Mrs.  Lambert.  The  wed- 
ding guests  smiled  and  praised  the  beauty  of  the  bride,  the 
quiet  gracefulness  of  the  bridesmaid  ;  but  one  there  was,  of 
proud  and  noble  bearing — a  stranger  there,  who  stood  aloof 
from  the  rest,  pale  and  sad.  As  soon  as  the  ceremony  was 
concluded,  Ellen  sought  the  air  to  cool  her  feverish  brow. 
While  standing  there  upon  the  balcony,  leaning  for  support 
against  a  pillar,  she  was  aroused  by  the  approach  of  the 
stranger,  whose  presence  had  so  strangely  agitated  her; 
alarmed  she  was  about  to  fly,  when  he  motioned  her  to  stay. 
Trembling,  she  obeyed ;  he  approached,  stood  still,  gazed  on 
her  like  one  incapable  of  speech ;  at  last,  in  a  voice  whose 
silvery  tones  fell  strangely  on  her  ear,  he  said,  "  Pardon  me, 
lady,  for  intruding  upon  your  meditations."  She  gazed  in 
astonishment ;  how  could  she  doubt  that  eye ;  no,  it  was  his 
look ;  it  was  no  dream ;  it  was  Frank  Arland.  He  had 
traversed  lands,  visited  cities,  and  wandered  he  scarcely 
knew  where,  striving  in  vain  to  forget  the  object  of  his  love, 


72  A    BLUSH. 

whom  he  thought  so  unworthy ;  but  she  had  ever  been  the 
guiding  star  of  memory's  brightest  hopes.  At  length  a  rich 
relation  died,  bequeathing  his  large  fortune  to  him.  He 
returned  a  millionaire.  We  will  leave  them  there — and 
whether  Ellen  explained  to  him  the  cause  of  her  discarding 
him,  we  will  judge  by  what  followed.  The  next  day  Arland 
sought  Wharton  to  ask  the  hand  of  his  daughter  in  mar- 
riage, and  you  may  be  assured,  reader,  no  objections  were 
made  this  time,  to  receiving  him  as  a  son. 

Two  months  Jiad  passed,  and  the  mansion  of  Esquire  Whar- 
ton was  again  illuminated ;  again  the  splendid  rooms  were 
thronged  with  the  gay  and  happy ;  but  the  happiest  of  them 
all  was  the  loving  couple  who  were  about  to  be  united  in  the 
bands  of  wedlock.  The  nuptial  vows  were  soon  breathed, 
the  binding  words,  "  I  will,"  were  uttered,  and  Frank 
Arland  pressed  the  lips  of  her  he  adored  with  the  kiss  of 
wedded  love.  ANNA. 


A  BLUSH. 

WHAT  a  mysterious  thing  is  a  blush  !  That  a  single  word, 
a  look,  or  a  thought  should  send  that  inimitable  carnation 
to  the  cheek,  like  the  soft  tints  of  a  summer  sunset !  Strange, 
too,  that  it  is  only  the  face,  the  human  face,  that  is  capable 
of  blushing  !  The  hand  or  the  foot  does  not  turn  red  with 
modesty,  or  shame,  any  more  than  the  glove  or  the  sock 
which  covers  them.  It  is  the  face  that  is  the  heaven  of  the 
soul.  There  may  be  traced  the  intellectual  phenomena,  with 
a  confidence  amounting  to  moral  certainty.  A  single  blush 
should  put  the  infidel  to  shame,  and  put  to  flight  his  blind 
doctrine  of  chance.  R. 


THE  MONEY  DIGGERS;  OR,  THE  FATAL  PASSION. 

A    TALE    OF    TRUTH. 

BY    REV.    M.    TKAFTON. 

O  cursed  lust  of  gold,  when  for  thy  sake 

The  wretch  throws  up  his  interest  in  both  worlds. 

AMONG  my  earliest  recollections  is  the  image  of  poor  crazy 
S .  How  often  have  I  seen  thee,  unfortunate  one,  fol- 
lowed by  a  host  of  heartless  boys,  pelted  and  hooted,  pushed 
and  tumbled  into  the  ditch. — yet  so  meek,  so  uncomplaining, 
so  harmless.  I  see  him  now,  of  slight  stature,  with  locks 
white  as  the  snows  of,his  own  native  hills,  streaming  in  the 
wind  ;  with  sharp  features,  and  a  small  bright  eye,  flashing 
and  restless,  paying  not  the  least  attention  to  the  rude  insults 
of  his  juvenile  persecutors,  but  slowly  plodding  on,  murmur- 
ing something  of  stocks  and  bonds  and  gold.  How  often 
when  a  mere  child  has  the  writer  seen  him  enter  his  father's 
house,  and  then  we,  the  children,  would  crowd  around  the 
harmless  old  man,  and  tease  him  to  tell  us  stories,  or  amuse 
us  by  writing  with  his  left  hand  backwards.  Poor  old  man  ! 
we  say  again  ;  thou  art  gone,  with  those  days  of  purest  joy ; 
thine  was  a  rough  path,  but  it  is  ended,  and  thy  sorrows  arid 
wanderings  are  over.  The  wrongs  thou  hast  endured  are 
forgotten,  and  few  are  the  hearts  which  now  cherish  thy 
memory. 

Eighty  years  ago  the  city  of  Bangor,  situated  on  the  head 
of  the  tide  waters  of  the  Penobscot,  was  a  forest ;  the  sound 
of  the  woodman's  axe  had  not  yet  aroused  the  slumbering 
echoes  of  the  wilderness  on  the  banks  of  that  beautiful 
river.  The  deer  and  the  moose  came  down  without  alarm 
to  its  quiet  brink  to  slake  their  thirst ;  and  the  frail  bark  of 
the  savage  glided  smoothly  over  its  tranquil  bosom.  Long 
before  the  thunder  of  artillery  proclaimed  to  the  startled 
world  that  liberty,  banished  from  the  old  world,  was  con- 
tending for  existence  in  the  new,  in  the  early  spring,  ere  yet 
the  chill  of  winter  had  departed  fully,  a  company  of  young 
men,  consisting  of  the  individual  above  named  and  five 
others,  might  have  been  seen  paddling  a  bateau  deeply 


74  THE    MONEY   DIGGERS. 

laden  with  stores  up  the  silent  waters  of  the  Penobscot. 
Those  were  days  of  hardy  enterprise  and  patient  toil ;  men 
struggled  for  life  in  the  unsubdued  wilderness.  The  rigor 
of  climate,  the  rough,  unbroken  soil,  and  the  tireless  vigi- 
lance of  the  jealous  savage,  were  insufficient  to  check  the 
rush  of  Yankee  enterprise,  or  confine  the  multiplying  masses 
to  the  sea-board.  Exploring  parties  were  pushing  into  the 
interior,  sailing  up  the  rivers  and  streams,  and  in  all  direc- 
tions rapidly  commencing  settlements. 

The  small  party  we  have  left  upon  the  river  were  from 
Massachusetts,  and  were  now  wending  their  way  up  the 
Penobscot  in  search  of  a  new  home.  It  was  the  opening  of 
spring,  and  to  them  the  opening  of  a  new  existence.  The 
face  of  nature  bore  an  encouraging  smile :  the  lofty  ever- 
green pines  threw  a  redolence  upon  the  bland  air ;  the  forest 
was  awake  with  song,  and  the  glassy  waters  rolled  on  to  the 
sea  unbroken  save  by  the  paddles  of  the  voyagers,  or  the 
sudden  hop  of  a  salmon  as  he  sprang  up  to  fling  the  rays  of 

a  setting  sun  from  his  golden  sides.  S acted  as  pilot  to 

the  party,  as  he  had  before  made  an  excursion  up  the  river 
where  he  had  selected  his  location.  Directing  the  movements 
of  the  party,  the  boat  was  pushed  across  the  mouth  of  a 
stream  called  by  the  Indians  Kenduskeag.  and  drawn  to 
shore  on  a  point  of  land  formed  by  the  junction  of  this  stream 
with  the  Penobscot  river.  Here  the  party  landed  and  took 
possession  of  a  log  cabin  erected  by  some  former  explorers, 
and  proceeded  to  unlade  their  boat  and  draw  it  upon  the 
bank.  It  was  an  inspiring  sight,  that  forest  scenery  which 
now  lay  before  them.  The  noble  river  rolled  on  its  un- 
broken current  to  the  ocean ;  the  waters  of  the  Kenduskeag 
came  dashing  in  from  an  interminable  forest  over  a  rough 
bed,  leaping  and  foaming  with  all  the  impetuosity  of  child- 
hood and  youth,  until  lost  in  the  calm  bosom  of  the  staid 
and  stately  river — as  the  rashness  of  youth  is  subdued  in 
the  sober  majesty  of  manhood  and  riper  years. 

On  all  hands  the  dark  forest  shut  them  in,  and  the  over- 
hanging branches  gently  kissed  the  waters  as  they  hurried 
by.  No  human  being  save  the  savage  was  within  forty 
miles  of  this  little  party,  and  as  they  sat  down  around  a 
blazing  fire  of  pine  knots,  which,  as  it  rose  and  fell,  threw 


THE    MONEY   DIGGERS.  75 

fantastic  images  upon  the  uncouth  walls  of  the  cabin,  a  spirit 
of  melancholy  stole  over  them,  and  home  and  absent  friends 
came  up  before  them  in  most  impressive  forms.  For  long 
they  sat  without  exchanging  a  word,  subdued  and  silenced 
by  the  overpowering  emotions  of  their  hearts.  Little  did 
those  adventurers  dream  that  in  a  little  more  than  half  a 
century  a  city  of  ten  thousand  inhabitants  would  spring  up 
on  the  spot  on  which  they  were  now  sitting,  the  living  heart 
of  a  neat  and  thrifty  country. 

Five  years  rolled  away,  and  a  little  cluster  of  log  huts,  on 
the  western  bank  of  the  Penobscot,  showed  the  improve- 
ments of  civilization.  The  trees  had  fallen  before  the  axe 
of  the  hardy  white  man.  and  some  small  openings  showed 
the  marks  of  a  farm  harvest.  It  was  early  in  May,  and  the 
settlers  were  just  commencing  to  prepare  the  ground  for  the 
seed.  The  troubles  with  the  mother  country  were  just  now 
commencing,  and  those  oppressive  measures  had  been 
adopted  by  an  imperious  and  overbearing  ministry  which 
ultimately  led  to  a  separation  of  the  colonies  from  the  father 
land.  Conscious  of  the  importance  of  a  strong  position  in 
the  eastern  province,  which  even  then  was  rapidly  settling, 
the  English  had  fitted  out  an  expedition  from  Halifax,  and 
took  possession  of  a  high  promontory  on  the  eastern  shore 
of  the  Penobscot  Bay,  now  known  as  Castine,  on  the  Baga- 
duce  river.  This  position  had  long  been  held  by  the  French 
under  Monsieur  Castine,  who  had  lived  in  great  amity  with 
the  Indian  tribes,  and  was  by  them  considered  as  a  father. 
But  his  feeble  band  was  no  match  for  the  strong  force  sent 
from  Halifax  against  them,  and  they  were  expelled  and 
forced  to  fly :  this  took  place  soon  after  the  pioneers  landed 
in  the  Penobscot. 

The  little  cluster  of  rude  dwellings  we  have  seen  on  the 
western  bank  of  the  Penobscot  were  thrown  into  intense 
excitement  one  morning  by  the  sudden  appearance  of  a 
large  boat  full  of  men,  which  hove  in  sight  around  a  point 
called  High  Head,  about  one  mile  below  the  present  city  of 

B.  S ,  from  his  position,  was  the  first  to  discover  the 

boat,  and,  leaping  into  his  canoe,  pushed  across  the  stream, 
to  apprize  his  neighbors  of  the  appearance  of  the  unusua'i 
spectacle. 


76  THE    MONEY   DIGGERS. 

"What  can  be  their  object?"  said  S.  to  his  companions, 
as  they  pressed  around  him  on  the  bank  of  the  river. 

"They  must  be  from  the  fort  at  Castine,"  replied  one; 
"but  what  leads  them  up  here  is  a  mystery." 

At  this  moment  the  group  was  increased  by  the  appear- 
ance of  another  individual  of  a  singularly  unique  appearance, 
hearing  in  his  hand  a  large  ship's  telescope.  He  was  about 
six  feet  in  height,  and  straight  as  an  Indian ;  his  features 
thin  and  sharp,  with  a  small  eye,  black  and  bright  as  a 
basilisk ;  his  hair  was  long  and  quite  grey,  and  he  wore  a  rusty 
naval  uniform,  while  his  head  was  covered  with  a  small 
military  fatigue  cap.  His  appearance  created  no  surprise 
among  the  group  assembled,  as  he  was  known  to  the  party 
as  a  Frenchman  by  the  name  of  Legras,  who,  shortly  after 
the  arrival  of  the  party  on  the  Penobscot,  came  and  erected 
a  dwelling  at  a  little  distance  from  the  cluster  of  huts. 
Whence  he  came,  no  one  knew ;  he  was  accompanied  by  a 
young  man,  whom  he  called  his  nephew,  bearing  his  own 
name.  No  clue  could  be  gained  from  his  conversation,  as 
he  was  extremely  taciturn  and  unsocial.  He  had  sought 
little  acquaintance  with  the  settlers,  though  living  very  near 
them;  though  he  spoke  good  English,  his  companion  had  no 
knowledge  of  that  language,  and  of  course  from  him  nothing 
could  be  known.  The  settlers  had  applied  to  him  the  cog- 
nomen of  "Captain,"  from  his  dress,  and  the  fact  that  he 
seemed  to  have  been  a  seafaring  man  ;  and  curiosity  had  at 
last  settled  down  in  the  conviction  that  he  was  one  of  Cas- 
tine's  party,  expelled  from  the  Bagaduce  river.  As  he 
approached  the  group  he  seemed  much  agitated,  and  when 

S accosted  him  with,  "  Well,  Captain,  we  are  to  have 

some  visitors,  it  seems,"  he  made  no  reply;  but  drawing  his 
glass  from  its  case  and  adjusting  the  slides,  he  slowly  raised 
it  to  his  eye  and  directed  it  to  the  approaching  boat.  For  a 
minute  no  one  uttered  a  word,  but  the  moment  he  took  the 
glass  from  his  eye  a  half  dozen  voices  exclaimed  at  once, 
"What  is  it?"  "English,"  said  he;  and  turning  to  his 
companion  he  spoke  a  few  words  in  French,  when  both 
instantly  departed,  and  were  soon  lost  sight  of  in  the  dark 
pines. 

"  A  queer  chap,  that  Captain,"  said  S ,  "  the  sight  of 


THE   MONEY    DIGGERS.  77 

an  Englishman  turns  him  as  white  as  one  of  his  own  boiled 
frogs."  But  the  party  were  too  intent  on  watching  the 
approach  of  the  barge,  for  such  it  proved  to  be,  to  heed  the 

jokes  of  S .  As  she  came  up,  driven  by  twelve  oarsmen 

in  blue  jackets  with  silver  facings,  mingled  with  the  scarlet 
uniforms  of  her  officers,  she  was  a  beautiful  sight  to  look 
upon.  The  union-jack  was  ftying  at  the  prow,  and  she 
mounted  a  long  brass  swivel.  She  came  shooting  through 
the  water  like  an  arrow,  the  oars  scarcely  breaking  its  mir- 
ror-like surface,  as  they  rose  and  fell  as  by  one  impulse. 

By  this  time  the  barge  had  approached  sufficiently  near 
for  hailing,  when  the  officer  in  command  called  out,  "  Direct 
us  to  a  good  landing." 

"Just  below  us  on  that  point  is  bold  shore,"  answered 
S . 

Obeying  the  helm  the  barge  turned  gracefully  in  towards 
the  shore,  and  a  moment  after  the  commander  leaped  on  the 
bank,  while  the  men,  shipping  their  oars,  proceeded  to  refresh 
themselves. 

"  A  ii  je  location  you  have  chosen,"  said  the  officer, 
addressing  himself  to  the  group. 

"  So-so,  for  a  wild  one,"  answered  one  of  the  party;  :;  we 
hope  to  make  something  of  it  by  and  bye." 

'•  Xo  doubt  you  will,"  said  the  officer  ;  "  but  now,"  added 
he,  "  my  errand  is  soon  told,  and  we  must  at  once  return." 

In  a  few  words  he  informed  the  listeners  that  his  majesty's 
troops  had  made  selection  of  a  site  at  Castine  for  a  heavy 
fort,  and  that  a  requisition  was  issued,  calling  upon  the 
inhabitants  upon  the  river  and  the  vicinity  to  go  by  turns 
and  assist  in  the  erection  of  the  works.  "  And  now,"  said 
he,  "  four  of  you  must  go  with  us  to-day,  on  a  tour  of  duty 
of  three  weeks,  when  the  others  must  take  a  turn."  Reluc- 
tant as  they  were  to  leave  home  at  this  busiest  season  of 
the  year,  resistance  was  vain,  and  they  prepared  to  draw 

lots,  and  among  others  it  fell  to  the  lot  of  S to  take  his 

turn  first. 

In  less  than  an  hour  the  barge  was  running  down  the 
river  to  her  destination.  A  few  hours  brought  them  into  the 
beautiful  bay  of  the  Penobscot,  when,  running  along  its 
eastern  shore,  they  shot  around  the  headland  into  Castine. 


78  THE    MONEY    DIGGERS. 

Already  was  there  quite  a  village  here,  and  the  eye  never 
fell  upon  a  finer  situation.  Almost  entirely  surrounded  by 
water,  the  bluff  on  which  the  fortifications  had  been  com- 
menced rose  from  two  to  three  hundred  feet,  on  the  extreme 
north-east  point,  and  then  gradually  fell  off  to  the  water.  It 
was  regarded  as  the  key  to  the  entire  eastern  section  of  the 
province  of  Maine,  and  the  government  determined  to  erect 
here  a  fort  which  should  be  a  second  Gibraltar.  The  mate- 
rials were  brought  from  Halifax,  and  the  whole  was  laid  up 
in  the  most  permanent  manner  possible.  The  solid  masonry 
is  still  standing,  and  visitors  may  now  pass  into  subterra- 
nean arches  which  the  shocks  of  more  than  a  century  have 
not  shaken. 

The  struggle  had  already  commenced.  The  soil  of  Lex- 
ington and  Bunker's  hill  had  been  baptized  with  the  blood 
of  men,  wht>se  heroism  taught  the  British  ministry  that 
England's  exiled  sons  had  rights  and  knew  how  to  defend 
them.  It  will  be  recollected  that  the  continental  congress 
fitted  out  a  small  armament  from  Boston  directed  to  Baga- 
dnce,  with  the  intention  of  wresting  that  fort  from  the  hands 
of  the  English.  Arriving  there  in  the  absence  of  the  British 
fleet,  a  landing  was  effected  on  the  north-eastern  point  of 
the  promontory,  and  a  small  battery  was  erected,  consisting 
of  a  long  brass  nine  pounder  and  some  smaller  guns.  This 
battery  opened  its  fire  upon  the  works,  and  continued  to 
play  upon  them  until  they  were  dislodged. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  the  party  from  B.  arrived  at  the 
fort;  they  were  immediately  put  into  messes  with  the 
soldiers  and  commenced  their  labor.  In  the  mess  with 

which  S was  connected  was  a  soldier  but  recently  taken 

into  the  service,  who  manifested  a  singular  restlessness 
joined  with  great  irritability.  A  short,  square  built,  iron 
frame,  with  a  most  savage  expression  of  countenance — he 
seemed  one  familiar  with  deeds  of  blood  and  daring.  He 
manifested  little  disposition  to  engage  in  conversation  with 
any  one,  and  when  rallied  by  his  messmates  on  his  melan- 
choly, would  rise  and  leave  the  tent — on  all  occasions  pre- 
serving a  moody  silence. 

It  so  happened  that  S and  this  singular  being  were 

one  day  digging  together  in  the  ditch.  S had  mani- 


THE   MONEY   DIGGERS.  79 

fested  an  interest  for  the  soldier,  and  defended  him  when 
attacked  by  the  bantering  mess,  and  this  had  evidently  not 

been  lost  upon  him :  he  was  more  social  with  S than 

with  others.  As  they  were  thus  at  work,  the  soldier  care- 
lessly remarked, 

"  You  are  from  up  the  river,  are  you?" 

"  I  am,"  said  S ,  glad  of  an  opportunity  of  drawing 

him  out;  "  were  you  ever  in  that  section?" 

"  Yes,  once." 

"  With  the  party  in  the  barge  when  I  came  down?"  said 

"No,"  said  he,  "long  before.  S ,"  said  he,  "can  I 

trust  you?" 

"  Most  certainly,"  said  S . 

He  looked  on  S a  moment  with  a  piercing  gaze,  and 

tears  came  to  hi*  eyes ;  he  dashed  them  away,  and,  laying 
his  hand  upon  his  heart,  he  groaned  and  said,  "I  am  most 
wretched  ;  I  am  not  long  for  this  world ;  I  have  a  strange 
presentiment — do  you  believe  in  presentiments?"  said  he, 
looking  at  S . 

"  I  cannot  say  that  I  do,"  was  the  reply. 

"  I  do,"  said  the  soldier.  "  More  than  once  have  I  felt 
this;  it  never  deceives  me  ;  some  evil  is  hanging  over  me  ; 
I  shall  not  be  long  here,"  said  he,  and  he  fell  into  a  fit  of 

abstraction.  At  last,  rousing  himself,  said  he  to  S , 

"  Meet  me  after  the  sunset  gun  on  the  bank  yonder — I  have 
a  secret  to  reveal  which  interests  you  as  much  as  myself." 

The  day's  work  was  no  sooner  finished  than  S hast- 
ened to  the  spot  indicated,  within  the  lines  of  the  piquets, 
and  yet  so  sheltered  and  covered  by  a  thick  growth  of 
spruces,  that  no  one  would  be  likely  to  disturb  them.  Already 
was  the  soldier  there,  and  seating  themselves  upon  a  log, 
he  commenced  the  following  narrative. 

[To  be  continued.] 


THE    DYING   BOY. 


THE  DYING  BOY. 

BY    J.    H.    BRIGHT. 

IT  must  be  sweet,  in  childhood,  to  give  back 

The  spirit  to  its  Maker  ;  ere  the  heart 

Has  grown  familiar  with  the  paths  of  sin, 

And  sown,  to  garner  up  its  bitter  fruits. 

I  knew  a  boy,  whose  infant  feet  had  trod 

Upon  the  blossoms  of  some  seven  springs, 

And  when  the  eighth  came  round,  and  called  him  out 

To  revel  in  its  light,  he  turned  away, 

And  sought  his  chamber,  to  lie  down  and  die. 

'T  was  night ;  he  summoned  his  accustomed  friends, 

And,  in  this  wise,  bestowed  his  last  request : 

"  Mother,  I  am  dying  now  ! 
There  is  deep  suffocation  in  my  breast, 
As  if  some  heavy  hand  my  bosom  pressed — • 

And  on  my  brow 

I  feel  the  cold  sweat  stand  ; 
My  lips  grow  dry  and  tremulous,  and  my  breath 
Comes  feebly  up.     Oh,  tell  me,  is  this  death? 

Mother,  your  hand  ! 

Here,  lay  it  on  my  wrist, 
And  place  the  other  thus,  beneath  my  head — 
And  say,  sweet  mother !  say,  when  I  am  dead 

Shall  I  be  missed  ? 

Never,  beside  your  knee, 
Shall  I  kneel  down  again  at  night  to  pray, 
Nor  with  the  morning  wake  and  sing  the  lay 

You  taught  to  me? 

Oh  !  at  the  time  of  prayer, 
When  you  look  round  and  see  a  vacant  seat, 
You  will  not  wait  then  for  my  coming  feet, — 

You  '11  miss  me  there ! 

Father,  1  'm  going  home! 

To  the  good  home  you  spoke  of — that  blessed  land 
Where  it  us  one  bright  summer  always,  and 

Death  does  not  come  ! 

Brother,  the  little  spot 

I  used  to  r;ill  my  garden,  where  long  hours 
We  stayed  to  vvaich  the  budding  things  and  flowers, 

Forget  it  not ! 


O :    VISIT    TO    LOUISBOURG,    CAPE   BRETON.  81 

Plant  there  some  box  or  pine — 
Something  that  lives  in  winter,  and  will  be 
A  verdant  offering  to  my  memory, 

And  call  it  mine  ! 

Sister,  my  young  rose  tree, 
That  all  the  spring  has  been  my  pleasant  care, 
Just  putting  forth  its  leaves  so  green  and  fair, 

I  give  to  thee. 

And  when  its  roses  bloom, 
I  shall  be  gone  away — my  short  life  done  ; 
But  will  you  not  bestow  a  single  one 

TT  L,  •         '!     ' 

Upon  my  tomb; 
Now,  mother,  sing  the  tune 

You  sing  last  night ;  I  'm  weary,  and  must  sleep  ; — 
io  was  it  called  my  name !     Nay,  do  not  weep, 
You  '11  come  soon  !  " 


For  the  Magnolia. 

VISIT  TO  LOUISBOURG,  CAPE  BRETON. 

[Concluded.] 

IN  submission  to  the  triumph  of  loveliness  the  sturdy 
breeze  now  died  gently  away,  and  a  light  calm  sat  upon  the 
lately-troubled  waters.  Our  wearied  bark  was  at  rest  in  the 
entrance  of  the  harbor,  which  here  opened  before  us  extend- 
ing far  inland ;  resembling  at  this  tranquil  hour  the  placid 
lake  of  mountain  scenery.  Its  face  was  glistening  with 
quiet,  sun-lit  smiles  that  awoke  no  remembrance  of  the 
dark,  mountain  frowns  of  the  boisterous  Atlantic.  Orders 
were  now  given  to  lower  the  boat  and  tow  the  vessel  to  her 
anchorage.  Joyously  I  leaped  into  the  boat,  and  with  the 
inspiriting  boatman's  stroke,  gave  the  eye  to  its  feasting  and 
heart  to  its  musing.  The  ear,  too,  was  not  unoccupied — 
the  tinkling  of  the  distant  cow-bell  fell  upon  it — and,  anon, 
I  was  in  the  pastures  of  Vermont,  and  the  barn-yards  of  her 
thrifty  farmers.  The  sound  of  the  busy  hammer  and  of 
rural  occupations — even  to  the  whistling  of  the  merry  cow- 
boy— thrilled  the  reviving  imagination  like  the  silver  notes 
of  enchanting  melody. 

Sunset  and  twilight  had  in  turn  thrown  their  cast  of  con- 
templation and  quiet  repose  over  the  scenery  and  the  heart. 
6 


82  VISIT    TO    LOUISBOURG,    CAPE    BRETON. 

Labrador  only  remained  as  the  influence  of  sad  remem- 
brance to  give  an  earnest  reality  to  the  enchantment  of  the 
scene ;  from  the  cloudy,  stormy  past  the  beating  heart  flew 
upward  to  the  clear  sunshine  of  the  present. 

Early  the  next  morning,  before  others  had  shaken  off  their 
slumbers,  with  a  solitary  friend  I  visited  the  land  and 
strolled  among  the  pastures,  the  forests  and  rustic  garden- 
plots.  At  every  turn  we  were  met  by  past  common  places, 
then  far  more  beautiful  than  gorgeous  exotics — those  were 
the  cabbage  and  the  potato;  here  were  sheep  and  cattle, 
free  in  their  mountain  homes — and  there,  smiling  in  rich- 
ness among  the  bushes  of  the  pastures,  were  veritable  blue- 
berries and  gooseberries.  I  chided  my  friend,  who  would 
here  have  respited  the  remembrances  and  enjoyments 
of  the  eye,  by  those  of  the  palate;  those  berries  were 
sacred. 

During  our  stay  we  roamed  at  will  through  the  forests  and 
fields,  and  reclined,  when  weary,  upon  the  green  bank  of 
the  murmuring  brook.  We  visited  the  inhabitants  at  their 
homes  and  in  their  fields.  How  beautiful  and  inspiring  of 
gratitude  was  it  to  occupy  a  chair  in  a  neat  cottage,  sur- 
rounded by  an  intelligent  and  hospitable  family !  to  con- 
verse with  the  cheerful  farmer  as  he  raked  the  sweet-scented 
hay  ! 

One  afternoon  we  strolled  along  the  hardly-beaten  road  to 
the  "  old  town."  The  ruins  of  the  old  city  were  scattered 
around  in  solemn,  quiet  monuments  of  the  destruction  of 
glory  and  life  by  human  wrath.  Indulging  our  study  of 

these  and  the  reflections  thus  awakened,  we  ascended  a 

• 

mound  bare  to  the  rude  blast  that  was  now  blowing.  We 
beheld  old  ocean  lashed  to  anger — beating  in  hostile  attack 
against  the  shore ;  and  nature  had  almost  secured  a  melan- 
choly association  with  depraved  man  in  the  work  of  de- 
struction. But  her  beauty  had  too  forcibly  prepossessed  the 
soul  to  allow  this  reflection.  By  a  turn  of  the  eye  the  ruins 
were  seen  covered  with  green  swards,  over  which  bleating 
sheep  were  grazing,  and  blithesome  children  gathering 
berries.  Even  the  magazine  of  the  paraphernalia  of  war 
had  submitted  its  dilapidated  arch  to  a  beautiful  rural  ser- 
vice ;  the  herd  of  cows,  hastening  from  their  feeding  over  the 


y  -'   >n   *si  •• 

POETRY.  83 

•K*-J/-  -      -  .-/*         *il«^_  ^JV 

ruins,  sought  there  a  shelter  from  the  shower  of  rain  which 
now  began  to  fall  to  the  interruption  of  our  reveries. 

A  favoring  breeze  concluded  our  visit ;  and  I  left  Louis- 
burg  with  hope  elevated  and  bounding  through  the  asperi- 
ties of  a  fortnight's  stormy  passage  to  my  native  land. 

Beauty  and  pleasure  I  thus  have  learned  are  without 
absolute  standard.  A  traveller  from  our  land  may  be  en- 
chanted by  the  gorgeous  beauties  and  the  luxuries  of  the 
tropics,  while  a  visitor  from  Labrador  will  be  equally 
affected  by  the  simple  beauties  and  few  comforts  which 
alleviate  the  roughness  of  Cape  Breton.  One,  deprived  for 
an  interval  of  the  most  humble  comfort  may  enjoy  as  much 
from  its  restoration  as  he  who  has  lost  the  wealth  of  Croe- 
sus can  realize  from  its  return.  To  seek,  then,  the  content- 
ment of  the  spirit  by  a  proper  valuation  of  what  we  have, 
and  acts  of  gratitude  to  the  Great  Giver,  is  higher  wisdom 
than  to  attach  our  happiness  to  phantoms  in  prospect  which 
are  seldom  within  our  destiny ;  and  the  securing  and  pos- 
session of  which  are  equally  despoiling  of  that  contentment 
which  is  the  object  of  their  acquisition.  A.  K.  T. 


POETRY. 

"  She  quickly  spoke, 
Throwing  aside  the  veil  of  sadness 
That  o'er  her  brow  was  stealing." 

WHY  art  thou  sad  to-day,  my  friend  \ 
What  change  has  o'er  thee  come  ? 

Never  should  thy  spirit  droop, 
In  this  thy  happy  home. 

My  friend  looked  up,  as  one  recalled 

To  busy  scenes  around  ; 

.  -  •  » 

And  casting  off  the  gloomy  look, 
Said  with  a  merry  sound  : — 

Me  sad? — ah,  no !  I  am  not  sad  ; 

Why  do  you  think  me  sol 
No  change  has  o'er  my  spirit  come, 

Nor  e'en  a  thought  of  woe. 

And  jumping  up,  she  thought  to  cast 
That  shade  of  gloom  away, 


CLARA    MASON. 


By  seeking  music's  livening  power, 
Singing  some  cheerful  lay. 


A  bright  smile  did  play  upon  her  lips, 

And  she  again  was  gay  ; 
Sporting — laughing — she  seemed  to  all 

Happy  as  the  birds  in  May. 

But  they  who  saw  the  shadow  pass 

Over  her  face  so  fair, 
Could  not  so  easy  he  deceived, 

Or  think  no  care  was  there. 

And  thus  it  is  with  half  the  v/orld, 

They  dash  away  the  care, 
And  fain  would  have  us  all  believe 

A  happy  heart  is  there. 


CLARA  MASON. 

A   STORY. 

BY     ROMANCEA     WYNDUAM. 

How  soon  they  flee  away, 
These  gods  of  mortal  clay  ! 

" it  was  not  all  a  dream." 

"  Euos"  had  pierced  the  hearts  of  two  "  congenial  spirits," 
Clara  Mason  and  Ettric  Pelico ;  and  after  the  marriage 
ceremonies  were  performed,  in  a  style  to  be  envied  by  every 
don,  they  joyfully  departed  from  the  American  shore  in  the 
"  Acadia,"  determined  to  sail  up  the  Skagen  Rack,  and 
down  the  Cattegat  to  Gottenburg,  etc. 

(From  the  Journal  of  John  Rememberera,  June  6,  18—,  Somerset,  TJ.  S.  A.J 

January  20,  18 — .  Having  been  furnished  with  a  scrap 
from  the  wonderful  Rememberera's  diary,  and  a  request  to 
write  their  history,  I  will  endeavor  to  comply,  if  you  will 
permit  me  to  commence  at  the  very  beginning  and  continue 
to  the  end, — as  I  know  and  may  imagine. 

April  4,  18 — .  Later  than  usual  the  stage  drove  to  the 
door  of  the  hotel  where  it  was  wont  to  tarry  all  night,  when 
Ettric  Pelico,  among  others,  gave  his  name  to  the  landlord, 
calling  for  a  "light  supper,"  as  he  remarked  he  was  "a 
little  ill :"  at  the  same  time,  looking  toward  a  little  bright- 


CLARA    MASON.  85 

eyed  daughter,  "tell  your  mother,  my  sweet  'deesse,'  I 
should  like  the  tea  soon." 

Ettric  Pelico  was  a  polite,  noble  youth,  from  Gottenburg, 
who  had  come  to  the  land  of  liberty  to  obtain  a  situation  in 
one  of  our  :t  towns  of  spindles,"  ouf  Manchesters  of  Amer- 
ica. During  his  years  of  tarry  in  Halifax,  he  had  been  in 
just  boarding-houses  enough,  in  just  society  enough — not  at 
first  understanding  much  English — and  he  had  stopped  in 
country  taverns  just  enough  times  to  learn  some  of  their 
customs.  His  quick  observing  eye  had  discerned  that  few 
were  the  servants  that  assisted  our  New  England  hostesses, 
that  all  are  free  and  equal. 

The  tea  was  brought  in,  and  the  hostess'  eldest  daughter 
presided.  'T  was  Clara  Mason — the  Clara  of  the  journal — 
whose  pleasing  countenance,  natural  ringlets,  almost  ban- 
ished pain  from  our  hero's  mind.  "  Yacita"  reigned,  while 
he  was  pondering  for  what  to  ask.  or  what  to  say,  that  his 
ears  might  be  delighted  with  a  voice  which  must  be  a  perfect 
Zetus'  if  coming  from  lips  of  so  angelic  a  form.  Little  was 
said,  however,  for  they  were  strangers,  except  answers  to 
his  interrogatories,  which  were  mechanically  prosy,  as  his 
whole  head  was  sick.  Soon  he  retired,  and  sought  refuge 
in  the  downy  pillow,  hoping  that  Morpheus — nature's 
restorer,  balmy  sleep — would  drive  away  that  wretched 
pain.  Morning  found  him  unable  to  rise — the  coach  must 
leave  without  him.  A  physician  was  called,  who  adminis- 
tered for  the  raging  fever.  The  good  matron  was  all  care, 
and — as  many  a  novelist  says — Mr.  Pelico  saw  not  the  angel 
of  his  supper-table.  At  length  she  appeared,  with  noiseless 
steps,  to  supply  the  place  of  her  mother.  Weeks  passed  on, 
before  Ettrick  recovered ;  he  at  length  was  able  to  ride,  and 
then  to  walk  a  short  distance.  Weeks  more  passed  in  calm 
enjoyment,  over  which  was  thrown  a  dreamy  pleasure;  and 
every  word  this  little  Clara  uttered,  sank  like  the  feeling  of 
rich  music  into  his  bosom,  and  went  thrilling  through  his 
whole  frame ;  for  never  had  such  beauty  struck  his  eye, 

"  So  perfect  and  so  peerless, 
Of  every  creature  best." 

Aye !  she  was  as  good  as  she  was  fair,  and  the  gallant 
Ettric  Pelico  "  woo'd  and  won"  Clara  Mason,  as  his  willing, 


86  CLARA    MASON. 

confiding  bride,  ere  the  date  in  the  above  journal.  For  a 
year  or  two  at  least  Clara  enjoyed  Sweden.  Ha,  ha  !  So 
many  voyages  have  been  described  that  theirs  would  not  be 
new,  or  much  different  from  the  generality  of  them,  taken  jfw 
collectively,  therefore,  I  have  said,  or  rather  intimated,  they 
sailed,  and  had  arrived  in  :t  the  old  country;"  and  that  she 
did  like  the  people,  the  scenery  of  Europe — of  the  country 
that  was  to  be  her  future  home,  of  unmolested,  unremitting 
happiness.  Did  I  say  a  year  or  two  she  enjoyed  the  land 
of  her  husband  1  Yes ;  till  then,  sadness  had  not  shaded 
her  brow.  Yet  at  this  data,  of  no  particularly  remembered 
date,  while  alone  in  her  boudoir, 

"  Her  country,  parents,  all  that  once  were  dear, 
Rushed  to  her  thoughts,  and  forced  a  tender  tear." 

Ettric  Pelico  entered,  bringing  a  package  of  letters  from 
her  friends — now  those  tears  were  instantly  thrown  aside, 

and 

"  Bright  were  her  eyes  and  beautiful  her  smiles," 

at  the  sight  of  her  "  liege  lord,"  together  with  the  missives. 
They  sailed,  they  rode,  in  the  company  of  noblemen  and 
peers — for  Ettric  was  of  noble  descent ;  she  was  happy,  the 
tears  flowed  not  again. 

Ettric's  father  was  a  duke,  and  this,  the  younger  son,  came 
to  America,  subjected  himself  to  toil,  that  on  his  return  he 
might  benefit  both  king  and  people.  But  some  of  you  may 
.recollect  that  in  that,  and  the  well  known  Russia,  work  is 
not  unlawful,  nor  degrading  to  gentlemen  or  ladies  ;  for  even 
the  princesses  '  turn  out'  in  their  own  splendid  private 
mansions,  the  many  rich  ornaments  that  are  sold  in  our  toy 
shops,  etc.  And  this  mechanical  genius  must  impart  his 
knowledge  and  govern  the  establishment,  where  the  "  fac- 
tories," as  they  are  called,  rear  their  heads ;  this  was  done 
in  a  few  hours  daily,  and  others  filled  his  place  under  his 
command.  The  unoccupied  time  was  still  one  varied  routine 
of  pleasure  excursions.  They  rode,  and  returned 

"  When  evening  descended  from  heaven  above, 
When  the  air  was  all  rest,  and  the  air  was  all  love. 
Delight  though  less  light  was  far  less  brief, 
As  the  day's  veil  fell  on  the  world  of  sleep." 


CLARA   MASON.  87 

And  Clara  Pelico  was  happy,  far  from  friends  save  one. 
Yet  she  had  made  friends  in  all  that  vicinity — none  knew 
her  but  to  love  her ;  but  what  to  her 

"  Was  the  idle  breath  of  the  world's  applause?" 

Alas  !  too  fondly  she  leaned  upon  that  "  treasured  one." 

Fatal  day !  in  which  the  laborers  brought  Ettric  Pelico 
from  the  Gottenburg  factory  to  his  own  castle,  and  into  the 
favorite  boudoir — into  the  presence  of  his  beloved  wife,  just 
as  the  clock  tolled  the  hour  one,  a  mangled  corpse  ! 

This  was  too  much  ;  the  beloved  and  cherished  husband — 
the  only  sure  dependance  in  a  land  far  from  kindred.  She 
reeled — she  fell !  All  was  done  for  her  whom  they  loved 
as  they  did  their  own  nation — their  own  blood ;  but  alas  ! 
when  life  came  her  brain  grew  wild.  Weeks  and  months 
still  found  her  mind  all  vague  in  its  wanderings.  Her  friends 
imagined  American  scenery,  the  sight  of  beloved  resorts  in 
youth,  would  recall  to  her  pleasant  scenes  and  restore  her 
reason.  For  this  purpose  they  "  launched"  and  came  to  her 
father's  halls. 

They  anxiously  waited  for  weeks,  and  were  still  fearful 
that  sound  mind  would  never  return  to  a  casket  yet  so  fair 
and  beautiful.  One  evening,  as 

"  The  golden  glow 

Of  sunset,  and  the  twilight's  tranquil  hour, 
Spread  their  enchantment  round  her," 

a  gleam  of  intelligence  crossed  her  face ;  she  said,  "  This 

is  my  home !  am  I  here  ?  Where  is ?  Have  I  slept 

long  by  this  window?  Oh  !  'twas  a  dream,  so  pleasant  at 
first,  and  then  so  frightful ! "  . 

After  saying  this  she  appeared  calm,  rational,  and  con- 
tinued to  imagine  the  scenes  of  those  long  years — dimmed 
by  that  fatal  accident— a  dream  while  she  lived. 

But  consumption's  fatal  hand  had  grasped  her  as  a  vic- 
tim. She  was  for  some  time  able  to  greet  her  home  friends 
with  a  "mechanical  grace;"  was  able  to  visit  her  loved 
resorts,  and  look  abroad  and  read 

"  Nature's  wide  book  of  pure  philosophy," 
which  she  saw  in  every  path,  "written  in  living  charac- 


88  A    WISE    DECISION. 

ters."  And  she  seemed  to  realize  she  was  not  as  she  was 
wont  to  be,  but  knew  not  why ; — 

"  A  sad  and  settled  melancholy  stole 
Over  her  joyous  mien." 

Thus years  were  entirely  erased  from  her  memory, 

save  sometimes  a  thought  of  "  the  dream,"  as  she  called  it, 
would  recur,  and  she  would  say,  "  'T  would  never  come  to 
pass.  This  hectic  flush  tells  me  to  be  ready  at  the  call  of 
Death,  that  king  of  the  world.  Yes,  I  am  ready,  Saviour 
receive  me ! " 

And  now.  beneath  yon  marble  obelisk,  rests  "  Mrs.  Clara 
M.  Pelico,  wife  of  Ettric  Pelico,  son  of  the  Duke  Frederic 
Pelico,  of  Gottenburg."  This  is  the  sad  fate  of  her  who 
lived  in  the  present  only.  Clara  had  never  known  sorrow, 
and  never  expected  it.  She  thought  not  of  the  morrow,  she 
knew  not  "  what  an  hour  would  bring  forth  ;"  was  unpre- 
pared for  the  fatal  shock  which  undermined  her  reason. 

Would  that  such  incidents  of  real  life,  which  are  not  so 
very  uncommon,  might  warn  us  all  to  command  presence 
of  mind — to  give  a  glance  at  the  future;  and  above  all,  to 
look  to  Him  who  "  overrules  all  things  for  our  good,"  and 
He  will  sustain  us,  for  "frail  is  the  arm  of  mortal  man;" 
none  can  hold  us  but  the  strong  arm  of  the  Lord  God 
Almighty ;  in  Him  we  must  put  our  trust,  and  be  resigned 
to  the  will  of  "  the  only  just  and  true." 

"  The  Lord,  the  only  Gfod,  is  great, 
And  greatly  to  be  prais'd." 
"  Trust  God,  who  will  employ 
His  aid  for  thee,  and  change  those  sighs 
To  thankful  hymns  of  joy." 


A  WISE  DECISION. — Eliza  Ambert,  a  young  Parisian  lady,  resolutely 
discarded  a  gentleman  to  whom  she  was  to  have  been  married,  because  he 
ridiculed  religion.  Having  given  him  a  gentle  reproof,  he  replied — "  That 
a  man  of  the  world  could  not  be  so  old-fashioned  as  to  regard  God  and 
religion!"  Eliza  started,  but,  on  recovering  herself,  said — "From  this 
moment,  sir,  when  I  discover  that  you  do  not  regard  religion,  I  cease  lo  be 
yours.  He  who  does  not  love  and  honor  God,  can  never  love  his  wife 
constantly  and  sincerely." 


THE   DYING   GIRL  —  COLLOQUY.  89 


•"    -  ,!  ,    '   !i!/vjv,'   .      .\ifjr.9<l 

THE  DYING  GIRL. 

AROUND  her  mother's  neck,  she  softly  speaks  : 

Dear  mother,  weep  not  !  I  have  dream'd 

Of  that  bright  world  to  which  I  go  : 
Methought  the  angels'  faces  gleam'd 

Beside  the  river's  crystal  flow  — 
The  glorious  streams  of  paradise 
Were  open'd  to  my  longing  eyes  — 
There  the  bright  river  that  makes  glad 

The  city  of  the  living  God  ; 
And  up  and  down  its  verdant  marge 

The  saints  and  glorious  angels  trod  ; 
And  there  life's  tree  —  the  fadeless  tree  — 
Yielding  its  healing  fruit  for  me  ! 
I  have  been  nature's  worshipper, 

And  lov'd  her  bright  and  lovely  flowers  ; 
But  O  !  my  heart  hath  never  dream'd 

Of  such  as  grow  in  heavenly  bowers  : 
And  yet  my  soul  has  oft  been  stirr'd 
To  glorious  dreams,  by  God's  own  word  ! 
Hark  !  to  the  music,  as  they  come 

To  bear  my  fainting  spirit  home  ; 
But,  O  !  'tis  nothing  to  the  notes 

That  swell  above,  in  heaven's  high  dome  ! 
Dear  mother,  we  shall  meet  again 
Where  love  will  wear  a  brighter  chain  ! 

J   'til; 

Her  arms  dropp'd  heavily  —  one  fluttering  breath 
But  faintly  stirr'd  upon  the  mother's  cheek, 
And  with  that  breath  the  soul  went  forth  to  God  ! 


COLLOQUY. 

WHERE   WOULD    YOU    LIVE? 

BY    MISS    CAROLINE    A.    PAYSON 

WE  have  again  met.  Have  you  concluded  where  you 
would  like  best  to  reside  ?  I  am  weary  of  study  and  of  the 
irksome  confinement  of  school,  and  had  I  wings  how  soon 
would  I  bid  adieu  to  these  monotonous  scenes. 

1.  ABBY.  I  would  fain  dwell  in  Italy,  that  land  of  poets, 
around  whose  brow  the  fairest  flowers  twine  that  played 


90  COLLOQUY.  gat 

amid  the  bowers — where  the  purple  tints  of  morning  and 
the  golden  skies  of  evening  glow  with  brilliant  light  and 
beauty.  I  would  rove  with  delight  through  its  bowers  of 
myrtle  and  groves  of  citron ;  look  on  its  sunny  bays  and 
winding  streams  flashing  with  golden  light.  I  would  listen 
to  the  soft  melody  of  the  leaping  fountain,  and  the  deep 
toned  anthem  of  the  foaming  cataract ;  stand  amidst  the 
magnificent  and  recall  by-gone  days,  when  the  far-famed 
"  City  of  Hills,"  and  her  conquerors  flourished  in  glory.  I 
would  view  Vesuvius,  grand  and  majestic  Vesuvius,  sending 
up  its  perpetual  cloud  of  smoke  as  a  lasting  monument  of 
its  power,  and  beholding  at  its  foot  the  fallen  grandeur  of 
Herculaneum  and  Pompeii,  and  learn  sad  tales  of  the  muta- 
bility of  all  things  human. 

2.  CATHARINE.     I  would  inhabit  Greece,  famed  in  history 
and  renowned  in  song,  rendered  dear  by  a  thousand  recol- 
lections— that  land  where  the  poet  imagined  the  earth  to  be 
peopled  with  celestial  inhabitants;  where  mountain,  hill  and 
rock  had  its  deity,  where  the  murmuring  streams  as  they 
wound  along,  and   the  stars  as  they  gleamed  with  beauty 
from  their   golden  thrones,  were  supposed  to  be  oracular; 
where  the  spirits  of  the  beautiful  were  believed  to  dwell 
enshrined  in  the  gentle  flowers  and  their  wild  strains  borne 
on  the  passing  breeze.     There  the  Muses  loved  to  dwell. 
There  Plato  taught,  and  Homer  sung.     There  Pindar  struck 
his  lyre,  and  the  laurels  of  Parnassus  crowned  the  brow  of 
the  triumphant  victor.     There  too  was  heard  the  voice  of 
Demosthenes,   whose    eloquence   caused    the    Macedpnian 
throne  to  tremble.     There  sages  taught,  and  the  blood  of 
patriots  moistened  the  field  of  Marathon,  and  crimsoned  the 
straits  of  Thermopylae  to  perpetuate  their  country's  freedom, 
in  that  far-famed  land,  whence  nations  once  drew  the  light 
of  science  and  liberty.     There  would  I  reside. 

3.  HARRIET.     Has  not  the  glory  of  Greece  departed  like 
the  fleeting  hues  of  a  summer's  cloud?     Though  its  atmos- 
phere is  still  salubrious,  and  its  climate  as  rugged  and  beau- 
tiful as  ever,  Turkish  tyranny  has  subdued  the  genius  of 
the  people,  and  put  to  flight  the  arts  and  sciences  for  which 
they  were  once  so  justly  renowned.     Were  I  to  wander  from 
my  native  land,  I  would  not  choose  a  dwelling-place  in 


COLLOQUY.  91 

Greece ;  nor  in  Italy's  sunny  vales ;  but  would  fix  my  habi- 
tation in  Switzerland,  so  replete  with  wild  and  picturesque 
scenery.  But  I  cannot  describe  the  imagery  of  that  country 
as  it  is  impressed  on  the  imagination.  There,  clear  and 
almost  transparent  glaciers,  here  smooth  and  there  broken 
into  irregular  masses,  the  flowery  vales  enclosed  between 
lofty  ridges  of  mountains,  the  beautiful  lakes  reflecting  on 
their  surface  the  wild  scenes  with  which  they  are  surrounded, 
the  rapid  rushing  torrents,  and  above  all  the  lofty  snow- 
capped Alps,  where  the  eagle  has  his  eyry  towering  overall, 
and  seeming  placed  by  Heaven  to  guard  the  vales  below,  all 
rest  upon  the  mind  and  linger  about  the  fancy  until  they 
seem  reality,  and  I  sigh  to  dwell  with  the  Switzer  in  his 
mountain  home.  But  what  say  you  ? 

4.  LOUISA.     You  inquire  where  I  would  select  a  habita- 
tion.    Alas  !  I  am  one  of  those  unfortunate  beings  in  whose 
character  discontent  is  a  predominant  quality.     Since  we 
last  met  I  have  endeavored  to  decide  in  what  part  of  the 
earth  I  should  prefer  a  residence.     I  have  perused  the  history 
of  different  lands,  Nova  Zembla  and  Terra  del  Fuego  not 
excepted,  but  as  the  dove  sent  forth  o'er  the  wide  waste  of 
waters,  could  find  no  sweet  spot  where  the  weary  whiff 
might  be  folded,  or  the  fainting  heart  obtain  rest,  so  in  this 
wide  world  I  can  discover  no  sunny  spot  where  I  would 
reside.     I  would  have  for  my  home  some  bright  star  in  the 
neighborhood  of  a  wandering  meteor,  and  feast  upon  the 
wide  dreams  of  fancy. 

5.  ADALINTE.     Would  I  were  in  some  green  island  encircled 
by  the  blue  sea,  where  spring,  smiling  and  beautiful  spring, 
ever  reigns  ; — where  I  might  be  regaled  by  breezes  fragrant 
with  the  odors  of  the  perfumed  groves,  cheered  by  the  wild 
melody   of  birds   of  rich   and   diversified    plumage,    that 
inhabit  the  spicy  forests  and  repose  in  elysian  bowers; — 
here,  removed  from  the  conflicts  of  ambition  and  power,  that 
embitter  the  scenes  of  other  lands,  I  would  abide  in  peace 
and  happiness. 

6.  SARAH.     I  care  not  for  your  murmuring  rivulets  and 
spicy  groves,  for  your  leaping  fountains,  or  roaring  cataracts, 
the  tiresome  monotony  of  these  scenes  would  soon  disgust 
me  and  I  should  seek  for  new  enjoyments.     I  would  dwell 


92  COLLOQUY. 

in  Paris  amid  the  din  and  bustle  of  that  splendid  city ;  I 
would  mingle  with  the  gay,  polite  and  fashionable,  and  with 
the  votaries  of  amusement  and  pleasure,  would  throng  the 
public  gardens  and  walks,  and  view  those  admirable  collec- 
tions of  paintings  and  sculpture  in  that  renowned  city. 

7.  MARY.     I  desire  a  quiet  life,  and  would  choose  a  home 
in  England.     I  would  inhabit  one  of  those  dear  little  cot- 
tages of  which  I  have  often  read,  covered  with  honey-suckle 
and  columbine,  peeping  forth  amidst  flowers,  the  patterns 
of  modesty  and  neatness.     There  would  I  study  the  scenes 
of  nature,  and  learn  from  them  lessons  of  morality  and  duty. 

8.  ELLEN.     I  would  not  rove  from  the  shore  of  our  own 
loved  America — this  consecrated  land  of  freedom,  where  the 
blighting  influence  of  a  tyrant  has  never  been  experienced, 
where  man  has  never  shrunk  in  obsequiousness  before  the 
frown  of  man,  but  from  whose  mountain  summits  and  green 
valleys  is  borne  the  voice  of   freedom  and   independence, 
where  liberty  finds  an  altar  in  every  heart.     What,  though 
we  may  boast  of  no  vine-clad  shores  like  the  sunny  region 
of  poetic  song,  no  fairy-land  of  the  rose  and  myrtle,  where 
nature  pours  forth  her  ripened  stores  disdainful  of  the  toil  of 
man.     Here  content  and  prosperity  are  spread  abroad  over 
the  community;  we  can  boast  of  a  code  of  laws  superior  to 
those  of  any  nation ;  of  institutions  blessed  and  blessing  in 
their  influence  and  character,  produced  by  the  same  noble 
and  patriotic  spirit  which  formed  our  system  of  government; 
of  associations  for  the  relief  of  the  suffering,  and  many 
establishments  for  the  diffusion  of  knowledge,  the  promotion 
of  science  and  of  religion.     What  though  it  boast  no  classic 
fields,  no  pomp  of  heraldry,  no  succession  of  kings.     We  can 
turn  to  a  history  bright  with  deeds  of  lofty  heroism,  and  of 
pure  and  spotless  excellence.     We  can  boast  an  honored 
lineage,  deduced  from  a  noble  and  pious  ancestry,  point  to  a 
long  list  of  names  ever  to  be  revered,  chief  among  which 
stands  the  name  of  WASHINGTON,  the  father  of  his  country 
and   friend  of  man.     Ever,  O  ever,  will  I  be   proud    and 
happy  that  it  has  been  my  destiny  to  dwell  in  America, 
glorious  America. 


SYMPATHETIC    FRIENDSHIP — COURTESY.  ^        93 


SYMPATHETIC  FRIENDSHIP. 

WE  might  have  known  thee  all  too  fair  and  bright 
For  this  dim  vale,  where  joy  has  but  a  name — 

Did  we  not  trace  in  thy  young  spirit's  light 
A  radiance  deeper  than  earth  long  may  claim  1 

Sweet  flower  of  promise,  with  whose  life's  first  morn 

A  thousand  hopes  were,  clustering  round  thee,  born. 

Did  not  thy  sunny  being  round  thee  fling 
Too  deep  a  gladness — too  intense  delight? 

Thy  beaming  glance,  so  like  a  smile  of  spring— 
Brought  it  no  boding  sense  of  early  blight  ? 

Too  rich  that  glance  with  thy  young  thoughts'  bright  play, 

And  feelings'  shadowy  light  deepening  its  ray. 

It  woke  a  love  too  strong  for  human  ties — 

Too  deeply  passionate  for  human  hearts. 
Love  has  no  rest  beneath  the  o'ershadowing  skies— 

Slill  from  the  earth  the  loveliest  soonest  parts. 
And  thou — how  looked  we  on  thy  form  of  light, 
And  thought  to  save  thee  from  death's  gathering  blight. 

Death's  blight ! — not  so — blest  boy,  we  know  thee  borne 
Beyond  the  touch  of  death  and  blight  forever, 

And  struggling  Jove  is  called  but  to  return 

Thee,  precious  gift,  back,  stainless,  to  the  Giver; 

Not  here  undimmed  had  been  thy  spirit's  ray, 

But  now  Jt  is  sealed  to  ever  brightening  day. 

We  have  not  lost  thee — even  the  lovely  dust 
O'er  which  love  bent  in  agony's  strong  strife, 

We  yield  it  up  but  for  a  while  in  trust, 
The  grave  shall  give  it  back  to  fairer  life — 

Death  may  not  hold  the  empire  of  the  tomb, 

Our  loved  and  mourned  shall  wake  to  immortal  bloom. 


COURTESY. — At  the  age  of  thirteen,  George  Washington  copied  into  a 
sort  of  memorandum-book,  which  he  then  kept,  a  set  of  rules  for  behavior  t 
the  influence  of  which  seems  clearly  discernible  upon  the  whole  of  his 
illustrious  life.  One  of  the  most  striking  and  useful  was — and  to  the  obser- 
vance of  which  we  would  invite  the  attention  of  all  our  youthful  readers — 
"  Never,  in  the  presence  of  others,  to  do  any  act  which  might  seem  to 
imply  a  slight,  or  disregard  of  them  ;  but  to  accompany  every  movement 
with  a  gesture  or  look  of  courtesy  and  respect,  at  least  so  aa  to  show  a 
mindfulness  that  others  are  present."  • .' i!  V  J 


_  . 

94  EDITOR'S  TABLE. 


EDITOR'S  TABLE. 

SKETCHES     OF     LOWELL,     MASS. 
[Concluded.] 

IT  is  not  now  quite  ten  years  since  Lowell  was  incorpo- 
rated as  a  city.  Its  population  is  about  thirty  thousand 
souls.  For  the  rapid  growth  of  this  youthful  city,  the 
industry  and  enterprise  of  its  inhabitants,  perhaps  there  is 
not  a  parallel  to  be  found  on  the  globe.  Here  are  thirty-three 
mills,  beside  the  print  works,  and  about  five  hundred  and 
fifty  houses  belonging  to  the  corporations.  Of  course  the 
manufacturing  character  of  the  place  constitutes  its  chief 
interest,  as  it  does  its  principal  revenue.  The  capital  stock 
here  invested  in  manufacturing  and  mechanical  enterprises 
is  twelve  millions  of  dollars.  These  establishments  employ 
between  six  and  seven  thousand  females,  and  near  three 
thousand  males,  who  are  occupied  some  thirteen  hours  every 
day.  With  them  it  is  work — work — work.  It  must  be  so, 
when  we  recollect  that  they  work  up  in  a  single  year  sixty- 
one  thousand  one  hundred  bales  of  cotton  ;  and  that  in  one 
week  they  make  one  million  four  hundred  and  fifty-nine 
thousand  one  hundred  yards  of  cloth,  amounting  to  seventy- 
five  million  eight  hundred  and  sixty-eight  thousand  yards 
per  year — nearly  enough  to  belt  the  globe  twice  round. 

This  is  indeed  a  wholesale  concern.  It  costs  much  to 
sustain  it.  Over  a  million  and  half  dollars  are  paid  out  every 
year  for  labor,  and  we  are  informed  that  an  equal  sum  is 
realized  as  the  profits  of  the  concern.  The  companies  are 
growing  immensely  rich ;  but  as  to  the  poor  laborers, 
especially  the  female  operatives,  it  is  hard  enough  for  them. 
They  are  making  others  rich  by  impoverishing  themselves. 
It  is  true  they  are  paid  for  their  services,  and  scanty  enough 
too.  Bell'd  up  and  bell'd  down,  as  they  are,  with  scarcely 
time  in  which  to  eat  their  meals,  but  few  retain  for  any  great 
length  of  time  the  health  with  which  they  enter  the  mills. 
Soon  they  lose  that  healthful  glow  by  which  nature  paints 
some  of  its  loveliest  tints  to  their  rosy  countenances,  and  a 
pale  sickly  hue  is  substituted.  Debility  and  its  consequences 


EDITOR'S  TABLE.  95 

in  many  instances  make  it  manifest  that  death  has  marked 
them  for  his  early  victims,  and,  unable  to  prosecute  their  toils, 
many  return  to  their  homes,  there  to  die.  We  do  not  say 
who  is  responsible  for  this  unnecessary  waste  of  human 
health  and  life  ;  but  we  do  say,  we  hope  that  the  subject 
will  be  rightly  canvassed,  the  opinions  of  the  medical  faculty 
be  freely  expressed,  arid  the  remedy  prescribed  and  followed. 

We  would  not  dwell  upon  the  dark  side  of  this  picture. 
The  girls,  after  all,  appear  to  enjoy  themselves  much.  They 
have  many  privileges.  Evenings  and  Sabbaths  they  are 
free.  They  can  occupy  themselves  as  their  taste  or  inclina- 
tion may  direct.  Many  of  them  are  very  intelligent,  and 
devote  their  leisure  hours  to  reading,  lectures,  and  the  vari- 
ous intellectual  improvements  which  the  facilities  of  the  city 
afford.  Many  of  them  are  truly  religious,  and  are  members 
of  the  various  churches  of  this  city,  and  appear  to  enjoy 
themselves  much  in  their  attendance  upon  the  different 
meetings  in  their  respective  churches.  In  short,  one  would 
hardly  suppose  it  possible  to  have  so  much  harmony  prevail 
among  such  a  dense  crowd  of  individuals,  brought  together 
as  they  are  from  the  different  towns  of  the  New  England 
States,  as  prevails  among  the  female  operatives  of  Lowell. 
Withal  it  is  justly  proverbial  that  their  conduct  as  a  com- 
munity is  exceedingly  decorous,  modest,  and  virtuous. 
They  are  consequently  much  respected  by  the  citizens  of 
Lowell.  Such  is  their  influence,  that  it  may  be  emphatically 
said  the  women  rule  here. 

Such  are  the  corporation  rules,  the  regulations  of  the 
respective  boarding  houses,  and  the  popular  feeling  with 
regard  to  the  rules  of  propriety  among  females,  that  we 
verily  believe  young  women  are  much  safer  here  than  they 
would  be  in  many  of  our  female  seminaries ;  and  as  to  the 
odium  of  being  called  a  "factory  girl,"  such  a  thing  is  not 
known  in  Lowell.  Only  give  them  a  longer  time  in  which 
to  eat  their  meals,  and  a  shorter  time  to  labor  each  day,  and 
such  would  be  the  pleasantness  of  the  life  of  a  "  factory 
girl,"  that  she  would  hardly  be  persuaded  to  leave  it  to 
become  the  better  half  of  another,  and  the  mistress  of  her 
own  household. 


HV4>.ftlEt;£iS 


A     HUNTING    QUARTET, 

The  vales  are      smoking    the    mountain's     blaze ; 


A  -  way,      a 


-  -  way,    to  the    sounding      chase !      Glad    morn  -  ing     wakes      to      fresh      de 

ft* 


-  -  light:    Each  bo  -  -  -  som      swells       for   deeds 

1        -  U-^ 


of  might. 
1*1 


•it I 

•IT..' 


on ward  Thro'  moorland  and  glen, 


Press  on,      pres» 
prin  -  ces,  ye  prin  -  ces    of 


on,    press       on,    press     on,    press 
wood  -  -  -  land    and       glen. 


—•±      -5zid::^-±»- 


55EE  =B& 
_y — *p**f 


2. 

Now  breaks  in  triumph  tlie  golden  light; 
See,  see,  the  shaft  in  its  winged  flight ; 
The  eagle  falls  from  towering  skios; 
In  leafy  glen  the  tiger  dies ! 
Press  onward,  &c 


JOAN  OF  ARC. 

ON  the  morning  of  the  31st  of  May,  1431,  on  the  very  spot 
where  now  stands  the  statue  erected  to  her  memory,  Joan 
of  Arc,  the  saviour  of  her  country,  was  burnt  alive.  Here, 
after  enduring  indescribable  agonies,  (for  she  perished  by  a 
slow  fire,)  she  died  calling  on  the  name  of  Jesus.  The 
monument  perpetuates,  with  her  own  undying  fame,  the 
everlasting  disgrace  of  her  friends  and  enemies,  the  French 
and  English.  Deserted,  and,  as  there  is  good  reason  to  sup- 
pose, betrayed  by  the  first,  and  treated  with  a  cowardly 
malice  and  the  basest  deceit  by  the  latter,  here,  in  the  centre 
of  the  Place  de  fa  Pucelle,  or  Maiden's  Square,  that  heroic 
woman,  whose  courage  and  enthusiasm  won  back  for 
Charles  the  throne  he  supposed  forever  lost,  met  her  death ; 
her  loyalty  to  her  king  and  her  faith  in  God  unshaken  to  the 
last. 

It  is  difficult  at  the  present  day  to  read  the  history  in 
which  she  acted  so  noble  and  triumphant  a  part,  and  believe 
that  the  inspiration  she  professed,  and  firmly  trusted  herself, 
was  not  a  divine  reality.  At  least,  we  see  no  reason  why 
she  should  not  be  ranked  with  the  "heroes  and  heroic  in 
history." 

To  our  mind  there  is  something  more  sublime  in  the 
spiritual  intercourse  in  which  she  believed  and  trusted  than 
even  in  her  triumphant  military  career.  From  her  earliest 
years,  we  find  her  without  any  interest  in  the  amusements 
of  her  age,  stealing  away  from  the  rude  occupations  in 
which  she  was  employed,  in  the  obscure  little  village  of 
Domresny,  to  wander  on  the  beautiful  banks  of  the  Meuse, 
or  lose  herself  in  the  solitudes  of  the  neighboring  forest. 
Amid  these  romantic  scenes  her  spiritual  visions  commenced, 
at  the  age  of  thirteen.  Here  she  believed  herself  visited  by 
saints,  angels  and  archangels;  St.  Margaret,  St.  Catharine, 
7 


98  JOAN   OF   ARC. 

Michael  and  Gabriel,  accompanied  by  multitudes  of  the 
heavenly  hosts,  here  instructed  and  conversed  with  her. 
To  the  end  of  her  life  she  believed  in  the  reality  of  all  these 
visions,  and  never  made  the  slightest  variation  in  her  rela- 
tion of  them,  and  it  is  evident  that  she  placed  the  most 
implicit  reliance  in  her  "  voice,"  as  she  termed  her  super- 
natural communications. 

There  was  a  beautiful  union  of  humility  and  energy — of 
womanliness  and  heroism  in  her  character.  On  one  occa- 
sion, when  wounded  by  an  arrow  in  her  neck,  she  was  lifted 
nearly  fainting  from  her  horse.  With  a  woman's  weakness, 
she  at  first  shed  tears  from  pain,  but  summoning  up  her 
unfailing  energy,  she  had  the  wound  speedily  dressed,  and 
calling  for  a  horse,  retired  for  a  short  time  to  a  vineyard 
where  she  earnestly  prayed,  and  then  remounting,  led  on 
again  her  eager  troops  to  victory.  At  another  time,  when 
heading  an  assault,  she  was  struck  down  by  a  stone  from 
the  walls ;  quickly  regaining  her  horse,  she  shouted  to  her 
followers,  "Friends!  friends!  be  of  good  courage ;  God  has 
given  the  English  into  our  hands ! " 

At  Rheims — at  that 

"  Joyous  day  in  Rheims  of  old, 
When  peal  on  peal  of  mighty  music  rolled 
Forth  from  her  thronged  cathedral ;" 

her  triumph  was  complete.  Mrs.  Hemans  has  truly  said  in 
her  beautiful  description  of  that  gorgeous  ceremony 

"  Never  before,  and  never  since  that  hour 
Hath  woman,  mantled  with  victorious  power, 
Stood  forth  as  thou  beside  the  shrine  didst  stand, 
Holy  amidst  the  knighthood  of  the  land, 
And  beautiful  with  joy  and  with  renown, 
Lift  thy  white  banner  o'er  the  olden  crown, 
Ransomed  for  France  by  thee." 

And  yet  when  the  magnificent  rites  were  over  and  she  had 
embraced  her  father,  her  uncle  and  her  brothers,  who  had 
come  to  the  cathedral  to  see  her,  with  a  true  woman's  heart 
the  "  daughter  of  victory"  said  to  the  Archbishop  of  Rheims, 
"Should  it  please  God,  I  would  now  depart,  and  abandon- 
ing arms,  return  to  serve  my  father  and  mother,  and  tend 
their  flocks  with  my  brothers  and  sisters."  Alas!  Maid  of 
Orleans ! 


JOAN   OP   ARC.  99 

"  Never  did  thine  eye 

Through  the  green  haunts  of  happy  infancy 
Wander  again." 

On  one  occasion,  when  brought  from  her  prison  07  her 
persecutors,  and  expecting  every  moment  to  hear  her  death- 
sentence,  she  listened  in  patient  silence  to  the  abuse  heaped 
upon  herself  by  the  priest  who  addressed  the  assembled  mul- 
titude of  her  enemies;  but  when  her  king  was  attacked  and 
pronounced  a  heretic,  and  the  ruiner  of  the  kingdom,  she 
boldly  exclaimed,  "  that  there  was  not  a  better  Christian  or 
friend  to  the  church  in  all  France  than  King  Charles  the 
Seventh." 

The  hatred  of  her  enemies  was  not  appeased  with  even 
her  agonizing  death,  for  the  Cardinal  of  Winchester  ordered 
her  very  ashes  to  be  collected  and  thrown  into  the  Seine. 
He  was  obeyed,  and  with  those  scattered  ashes  the  waves 
bore  her  spotless  fame  to  all  lands  where  the  country  she 
freed  is  known.  The  nation  she  served,  though,  in  its  grati- 
tude, still  felt  that  her  name  was  one  the  "  world  would  not 
willingly  let  die."  A  beautiful  fountain  was  afterwards 
erected  in  the  Place  de  la  Pucelle.  It  was  destroyed  by  the 
demons  of  the  revolution,  and  has  since  been  replaced  by  the 
present  noble  statue. 

The  Princess  Marie,  eldest  daughter  of  the  present  king 
of  France,  has  united  her  own  regal  name  with  that  of  the 
peasant  of  Domresy  by  her  beautiful  statue  of  Jeanne  D'Arc, 
the  work  of  her  own  royal  hands. 


DIFFERENCE  BETWEEN  A  MAN  OF  SENSE  AND  A  MAN  OF  GENIUS. — A 
man  of  sense  can  put  a  method  in  practice  which  has  been  in  application 
for  ages.  A  man  of  genius  deals  with  the  passions.  With  them  he  has  a 
certain  experimental  acquaintance.  He  forms  his  own  mode  of  perform- 
ing his  heroic  actions.  Men  of  sense  follow  beaten  paths  ;  men  of  genius 
forsake  them.  A  man  of  sense  sows  an  old  seed  for  a  new  harvest ;  a  man 
of  genius  forms  a  new  spring  for  moving  an  old  world.  To  the  man  of 
sense  the  book  of  futurity  is  shut ;  but  for  the  man  of  genius  the  eagle  eye 
of  passion  penetrates  into  the  dark  abyss  of  futurity. 


100  A    TALE    OF    THE    REFORMERS. 


For  the  Magnolia. 

A  TALE  OF  THE  REFORMERS. 

IN  the  heart  of  that  beautiful  country  of  Europe,  which 
seems  naturally  defended  by  mountain  bulwarks  from  the 
power  of  the  marauder,  was  situated,  in  the  year  1520,  a 
rural  dwelling,  half  hid  from  the  view  by  the  luxuriant 
vines,  that,  on  the  northern  and  western  sides,  climbed  the 
pillars  of  the  lower  piazza  and  inwove  with  the  lattice  work 
of  the  upper  one.  At  a  few  feet  from  the  door  coursed  the 
broad  blue  waters  of  the  Rhone,  along  the  banks  of  which, 
at  regular  intervals,  were  planted  lofty  pine  trees,  their  dark 
foliage  and  sturdy  growth  contrasting  strongly  with  delicate 
flowers  that  flourished,  not  without  culture,  around  the 
Switzer's  home.  In  the  back  ground  the  "red  grape  clus- 
tering hung,"  and  during  the  wine  month,  as  the  ringing  of 
the  evening  bells  called  the  laborers  from  their  vineyards, 
the  joyful  vintage  music  rung  full  upon  the  breeze.  The 
perfect  taste  and  elegance  displayed  in  and  around  this 
dwelling  indicated  wealth  and  refinement,  while  its  retired 
and  peaceful  situation  proved  that  its  inmates  shunned  noto- 
riety rather  than  courted  it.  And  so  it  was.  Born  of  noble 
parents,  nursed  in  opulence,  yet  possessed  of  that  thirst  for 
knowledge  which  yields  neither  to  the  effeminacy  sometimes 
engendered  by  luxury,  nor  to  the  difficulties  that  obstruct  the 
path  of  the  unfortunate,  the  head  of  this  family  had  early 
sought  to  cultivate  the  intellect  with  which  nature  had  so 
highly  endowed  him.  While  a  member  of  the  celebrated 
university  of  Wittemburg,  he  had  formed  an  acquaintance 
with  the  beautiful  German  girl  who  now  shared  his  home. 
Twenty  years  of  prosperity  had  gone  by;  a  son  of  eighteen 
years  and  a  daughter  of  sixteen  added  to  the  almost  perfect 
happiness  of  the  parents  at  the  period  of  which  we  are 
speaking.  ***** 

'T  is  evening — so  like  one  of  those  often  witnessed  in  our 
own  "Switzerland  of  America,"  that  I  will  not  attempt  its 
description.  If  the  imagination  of  the  reader  need  aid,  let 


A  TALE    OF   THE    REFORMERS.  101 

him,  some  calm  evening  in  June,  leaving  the  hum  and  bustle 
of  the  city,  direct  his  steps  to  the  country,  yield  himself  to 
the  kindly  influences  that  surround  him,  the  balmy  breezes, 
the  mild  lustre  of  the  heavens,  the  gentle  rustling  of  the 
leaves  as  they  whisper  their  songs  of  joy,  and  if  his  heart 
be  not  depraved,  he  will  need  no  aid  to  fancy,  he  will  feel 
the  beauty  of  the  evening.  The  family  of  the  Switzer  had 
gathered  around  a  circular  table  to  enjoy  that  feast  of  soul 
which  they  only  can  relish  who  have  long  drank  at  the 
"Pierian  spring."  The  daughter  reads.  Hers  was  not  the 
measured  emphasis,  the  monotonous  tone,  that  begets  listless- 
ness  in  the  hearer.  Her  soft  full  voice  fell  melodiously  upon 
the  ear,  though  she  read  with  the  necessary  energy  the  senti- 
ments of  that  pointed  and  concise  writer,  Martin  Luther. 
Deeply  imbued  as  was  the  father  with  the  Catholic  super- 
stitions, fortified  as  he  was  by  early  prejudices,  limited  as 
was  his  knowledge  of  the  Scriptures,  it  is  no  wonder  that  he 
clung  fast  to  the  Romish  Church.  Yet  he  thirsted  for  truth, 
he  felt  that  much  of  their  faith  was  enveloped  in  mystery, 
and  he  longed  to  possess  a  copy  of  the  Scriptures  of  which 
the  common  people  were  then  deprived.  Haller  and  Gene- 
vra,  less  strongly  imbued  with  prejudice,  had  long  since 
acknowledged  when  conversing  with  their  parents  their  con- 
viction of  the  truth  of  the  tenets  of  the  reform  advocates,  but 
the  father  with  prophetic  eye  had  seen  the  evils  that  would 
ensue  and  warned  them  to  beware. 

And  here,  passing  over  the  progress  of  true  religion  in  this 
family,  let  us  glance  at  the  religious  history  of  Switzerland 
from  1484  to  1526. 

We  have  spoken  of  the  writings  of  Martin  Luther,  yet  it 
was  not  through  his  agency  that  the  change  of  religious 
views  in  the  cantons  of  Switzerland  was  effected.  Zwingle, 
Faler,  Calvin,  and  many  others  were  active  leaders  in  the 
reform  of  those  cantons.  Its  cause  advanced  more  rapidly 
than  in  Germany.  It  was  in  comparison  the  work  of  a  day. 
No  sooner  were  the  people  convinced  of  the  truth  than  they 
rushed  en  masse  to  its  embrace;  and  it  was  not  till  about 
the  year  1520  that  the  writings  of  Luther  were  circulated  in 
Switzerland.  The  same  year  Pope  Leo  X.  issued  against 
him  his  first  bull  of  excommunication.  Hitherto  he  had 


102  A   TALE    OF    THE   REFORMERS. 

sought  to  reform  a  church  of  which  he  was  a  member,  and 
while  this  hope  remained  to  him,  he  restrained  his  indigna- 
tion against  its  sins,  and  sought  only  to  enlighten  it.  But 
now  that  they  separated  from  him,  refusing  to  listen  to 
proof,  why  should  he  longer  delay?  He  resolves  to  preach 
the  Gospel  whether  men  will  hear  or  forbear,  and  from  this 
lime  his  writings  assume  the  bold  and  fearless  tone  of  one 
who  feels  that,  God  and  right  on  his  side,  he  will  not  fear 
what  man  can  do  unto  him.  In  1523  he  gave  to  the  people 
the  Bible  in  German,  and  Zwingle  gave  to  the  Swiss  a  trans- 
lation in  their  language  the  same  year.  It  was  about  this 
time  that  Zwingle  and  Luther  became  acquainted,  and  their 
writings  and  labors  were  arousing  all  Christendom;  and 
brought  about  that  change  which  has  ever  since  been  styled 
the  "  Reformation."  But  this  was  not  easily  effected:  well 
did  the  Swiss  Reformers  know  that  they  who  will  live 
godly  in  Christ  Jesus  shall  suffer  persecution. 

National  councils  for  discussion  were  convoked,  in  which 
the  fearless  advocates  of  reform  challenged  the  most  re- 
nowned theologians  in  the  Pope's  favor  to  open  debate,  and 
proved  them  unable  to  reply  to  their  arguments.  This  led 
the  people  to  examine  for  themselves,  and  though  Papacy 
sought  to  crush  the  rise  of  "heresy"  by  employing  the  arm 
of  civil  power  to  persecute,  to  excommunicate,  to  banish 
cantons  and  members  of  cantons  from  the  national  Diet,  yet 
the  people  were  convinced,  and  soon  we  see  the  Mass 
abolished,  monasteries  deserted,  temples  stript  of  their 
images,  the  priests  and  clergy  marrying,  the  sale  of  indul- 
gences prohibited,  the  Pope's  supremacy  denied,  and  in 
place  of  the  Papal  ceremonies  is  set  up  the  pure  and  spirit- 
ual worship  of  God. 

Alone,  in  a  beautiful  arbor,  Genevra  is  kneeling  with 
clasped  hands  and  eyes  upraised  to  Heaven.  At  a  little 
distance,  unobserved  by  her,  stands  a  tall  youth  of  noble 
bearing,  in  whose  countenance  might  be  traced  sure  indica- 
tions of  frankness,  amiability  and  decision.  His  attitude 
was  a  listening  one.  What  does  he  hear  ?  A  soft  clear  voice 
in  beseeching  tones,  "  Father,  teach  him  the  knowledge  of 
thyself;  give  me  strength  to  own  thee  before  men,  before 
him,  and  Oh  !  help  me,  if  need  be,  to  deny  all  earthly  gain, 


A   TALE   OF    THE   REFORMEKS. 

even  this  most  loved,  most  idolized  friend  for  thy  favor. 
Give  me  grace  at  this  approaching  interview  to  tell  him  all 
Let  not  my  faith  yield  to  my  woman's  love."  What! 
thought  the  youth,  has  she  with  her  calm  understanding 
become  a  heretic  ?  Then  I  '11  renounce  her,  for  none  of  this 
heretical  sect  shall  dwell  in  the  proud  castle  of  my  ancestors. 
I  will  away ;  she  shall  never  know  why  I  have  changed — 
But  no,  I  will  be  manly,  and  tell  her  all ;  perhaps  she  is  only 
excite4,  and  when  her  reason  is  appealed  to,  will  yield ;  and 
he  advanced  toward  the  arbor.  Genevra  heard  his  footsteps 
and  hastened  to  welcome  him,  but  the  coldness  of  his  first 
salutation  sent  an  icy  chill  to  her  heart.  This  night,  thought 
she,  the  cloud  that  has  long  hung  over  me  will  burst.  Men- 
tally she  prayed,  "  Oh  my  Father,  let  thy  spirit  strengthen 
me."  Observations  on  the  religious  works  which  lay  upon 
her  table,  led  the  way  to  a  conversation  in  which  Genevra 
ingenuously  informed  Hedriech  of  the  change  in  her  reli- 
gious views.  In  vain  he  reasoned ;  his  arguments  had  long 
since  been  weighed,  and  scorning,  as  a  high  souled  woman 
ever  does,  to  deceive  the  man  who  proposes  to  become  her 
nearest  friend,  she  frankly  told  him  she  had  long  been 
decided.  As  she  met  his  determined  and  reproachful  gaze, 
a  crimson  flush  spread  over  her  features,  but  it  was  instantly 
succeeded  by  an  ashy  paleness,  as  he  said,  "  Alas!  now  do  I 
perceive  that  even  you,  whose  soul  I  have  deemed  too  pure, 
too  good,  to  be  stained  with  earthly  pollution,  can  become  a 
heretic.  Farewell !  we  meet  no  more ;"  and  he  rushed  from 
her  presence. 

Oh,  there  are  moments  in  which  ages  of  sorrow  pass  over 
us,  in  which  the  heart  grows  old.  There  are  sorrows  that 
make  the  light  of  Heaven's  sun  as  gray  gloomy  twilight. 
The  Spirit  of  Peace  may  breathe  resignation  into  the  soul 
possessed  with  resolution  high  and  holy,  and  yet  the  eye 
grow  dim  and  the  cheek  pale,  till  at  last  the  weary  one  lies 
down  quietly,  and  with  angel  smiles  sleeps  the  last  sleep. 
In  that  hour  when  Hedriech,  the  companion  of  her  youth, 
he  who  had  been  friend,  lover,  betrothed,  bade  her  farewell, 
she  sunk  beneath  the  blow.  Long  did  she  remain  power- 
less with  emotion  ;  fervently  did  she  pray,  "  Father,  give  me 
the  victory  over  this  weakness;"  and  she  was  calm.  She 


104  A    TAIE    OF    THE    REFORMERS. 

looked  around  and  enumerated  her  blessings.  Had  she  not  a 
sweet  home,  kind  parents,  a  brave  and  gentle  brother  ?  Were 
they  not  all  of  one  faith  ?  Her  heart  warmed  with  love  to 
them  and  to  God.  Yes,  said  she,  as  she  glanced  upward, 
the  stars  are  friends — friends  alike  through  all  vicissitudes 
of  fortune.  We  may  be  compelled  to  leave  our  childhood's 
home,  to  bid  farewell  to  the  thousand  endearments  that  have 
almost  unconsciously  bound  themselves  to  our  hearts — to 
take  the  parting  hand  of  parents,  brothers,  sisters  and  friends, 
and  go  forth  into  the  world  to  battle  with  its  rough  changes 
— to  meet  with  disappointments,  and  to  contend  with  the  self- 
ishness, pride  and  insolence  of  mankind,  yet,  amid  all  this, 
we  may  look  above  us,  and  there  we  meet  the  same  friendly 
gaze  that  shone  on  us  in  earlier  days.  This  train  of  reflec- 
tions was  interrupted  by  her  brother,  who  came  to  warn  her 
of  the  chill  air  and  heavy  dews,  and  seizing  her  hand  he 
drew  her  towards  him  and  asked  anxiously,  "Where  is 
Hedriech?"  "My  worst  fears  are  realized,"  said  Genevra. 
Haller  forbore  to  question  her,  and  they  proceeded  silently 
to  the  house.  Morning  came,  and  with  it  the  memory  of  the 
past.  Gladly  would  she  have  resigned  her  spirit  to  its 
Maker,  but  she  will  live  to  bless  her  family.  Months  passed 
away,  and  the  hearts  of  the  parents  grew  sad  as  they  saw  the 
pale,  attenuated  form  of  Genevra  apparently  gliding  to  the 
grave.  No  tears,  no  repinings,  but  faith  in  God,  meek  resig- 
nation, and  a  holy  hope  of  a  better  world  spoke  in  every 
action. 

A  year  had  gone  by — summer  had  come  again,  and  the 
disciples  of  the  Reformation  had  met  on  the  mountain  side 
to  worship  God.  Here  they  hoped  in  safety  to  mingle  their 
voices  in  praise  and  prayer,  and  to  listen  to  the  preach- 
ing of  the  Gospel.  But  suddenly  the  watchful  foe  appears, 
headed  by  the  burgomaster  and  other  officers  of  the  canton. 
Some  escaped,  but  many  were  arrested,  and  among  them 
the  family  of  Genevra.  Oh,  with  what  emotions  did  Hed- 
riech  listen  to  the  news  of  this  arrest !  Never  had  he  been 
able  to  drive  from  his  mind  the  cherished  image  of  his  first 
love.  A  victim  of  early  prejudices,  he  had  religiously  and 
conscientiously  adhered  to  his  resolution,  cherishing,  all 
the  while,  the  hope  that  Genevra  would  yet  abandon  her 


A    TALE   OF    THE   REFORMERS.  105 

faith ;  while  in  all  his  dreams  of  future  happiness  her  image 
floated  around  him,  the  ministering  angel  whose  gentleness 
and  love  were  ever  the  solace  of  his  darkest  hours,  and  now 
that  she  was  torn  from  that  home  where  she  had  been  nursed 
as  a  tender  flower,  and  exposed  to  the  bitter  hate  of  irreli- 
gious and  unprincipled  men,  all  that  was  noble  and  manly 
in  his  nature  rose  up  to  plead  in  her  behalf.  He  resolved  to 
see  her  once  more,  and  to  do  all  that  love  and  honor  could 
do,  to  save  her  from  ruin.  It  were  needless  to  describe  the 
interview.  The  reader  can  imagine  how  eloquent  would  be 
the  appeal,  when  the  heart  dictated  the  language,  and  how 
persuasively  it  must  have  fallen  on  the  ear  of  love.  Yet  she 
was  firm,  and  Hedriech  left  her  deeply  dejected,  yet  resolved 
to  see  her  again.  Man  is  the  acknowledged  lord  of  creation, 
and  the  many  arts  to  which  women  resort  to  gain  his  esteem 
are  tacit  acknowledgments  of  his  superiority.  But  woman 
is  amply  repaid  for  this  tribute  to  man  by  that  tenderness 
and  affection  which  often  leads  him  to  yield  to  her  gentle 
persuasions,  when  she  seeks  to  guide  him  in  the  path  of  vir- 
tue. What  the  regulator  is  to  machinery,  woman's  gentle 
influence  is  to  man  when  temptations  assail  him  and  dark- 
ness surrounds  him.  How  important,  then,  that  she  should 
understand  and  appreciate  the  power  she  wields,  and  the 
necessity  of  adhering  to  correct  principles,  with  a  firmness 
that  neither  love,  nor  any  worldly  interest  can  shake,  relying 
upon  the  aid  of  Divine  Providence  and  the  certainty  that 
virtue  brings  its  own  reward,  and  vice  its  own  punishment. 
The  Switzer's  family  were  soon  brought  to  trial.  So  boldly 
did  they  meet  their  accusers  and  so  fearlessly  advocate  their 
principles,  that  it  was  impossible  to  find  any  fault  in  them 
worthy  of  death,  and  they  were  remanded  to  prison,  under 
pretence  of  wishing  to  examine  them  farther.  Meanwhile, 
so  numerous  were  the  converts  to  the  Protestant  faith,  that 
the  necessity  of  checking  its  progress  was  forced  upon  the 
official  members  of  the  Romish  Church.  Excommunica- 
tions, ridicule,  and  disgraceful  epithets  were  their  principal 
weapons,  yet  when  it  could  be  done  with  safety,  threats 
were  executed  and  many  zealous  Christians  sought  refuge 
in  foreign  countries.  Often  were  they  thrown  into  prison, 
where  they  remained  for  weeks,  escaping,  only  by  leaving 


106  A.   TALE    OF    THE    REFORMERS. 

all  that  was  dear  to  them  and  fleeing  for  their  lives.  So 
was  it  with  this  worthy  family.  Months  passed  by  and 
their  condition  grew  worse.  The  mother  drooped  and  died, 
but  in  the  faith  of  a  glorious  resurrection.  Hedriech  had 
become  a  daily  visitor,  bribing  the  jailer  with  gold.  He  had 
been  persuaded  to  undertake  an  investigation  of  the  Protes- 
tant faith,  and  to  compare  it  with  Scripture.  Light  burst  into 
his  prejudiced  mind ;  he  saw  and  felt  the  darkness  in  which 
he  had  been  wrapped,  and  inwardly  resolved  to  rescue  his 
friends  from  suffering;  and  true  to  his  generous  nature 
acknowledge  his  conviction  of  the  truth.  At  the  sacrifice 
of  a  great  portion  of  his  wealth,  he  obtained  their  freedom, 
but  fearing  they  might  again  be  deprived  of  it,  they  took 
refuge  in  Holland,  not  however  till  Hedriech  and  Genevra 
were  again  betrothed. 

******* 
Some  months  passed  away,  and  Genevra  is  again  in  the  same 
beautiful  arbor,  which  we  have  once  described  to  our  readers. 
But  this  time  she  is  not  alone ;  she  is  seated  at  a  table  which 
is  spread  for  the  evening  repast.  A  radiant  glow  of  happi- 
ness lights  her  face,  which  was  wanting  when  last  we  saw 
her  there.  At  her  right  hand  sits  her  white-haired  sire ; 
changes  and  grief  for  the  loss  of  the  beloved  companion  of 
his  youth  have  furrowed  his  brow,  and  silvered  his  hair 
more  than  Time's  rude  touches ;  but  a  smile  of  serene  enjoy- 
ment illumes  his  face.  Haller  is  on  the  other  side — his 
soldier  garb  bespeaks  his  profession,  and  in  good  sooth  he 
has  more  than  once  perilled  that  manly  form  in  the  battles 
for  God  and  his  country.  He  stood  side  by  side  with 
Zwingle,  in  that  conflict  where  the  martyr  hero  yielded  up 
his  life ;  and  he  had  caught  the  mantle  of  this  great  Reform- 
er's devotion. 

Opposite  Genevra  is  a  face  which,  "  though  changed,  is 
still  the  same"  we  saw  listening  with  such  earnestness  to 
her  prayer  on  that  still  summer  eve.  But  now  his  hands 
are  clasped,  and  he  implores  the  blessing  of  God  upon  the 
bounties  outspread  before  them.  It  is  the  pastor  Hedriech. 
He  has  devoted  himself  to  the  work  of  the  ministry  and 
become  a  zealous  preacher  of  that  religion  he  once  despised. 
He  is  cheered  and  encouraged  in  his  labors  by  his  beloved 


A   NIGHT   THOUGHT.  107 

Genevra,  whose  heretical  opinions  he  once  thought  would 
disgrace  his  nobility. 

Such  is  the  power  of  truth  over  candid  and  reflecting 
minds,  and  such  the  reward  of  a  firm  adherence  to  virtue. 
The  arm  of  civil  law  is  powerless  when  the  mass  resolve  to 
oppose  it,  and  though  both  church  and  state  affixed  severe 
penalties  to  the  embrace  of  Protestantism,  yet  it  was  but  a 
few  years  before  all  these  barriers  were  broken  down,  and  it 
became  the  prevailing  )eligion  of  the  western  cantons  of 
Switzerland.  The  family  of  the  Reformers  were  permitted 
to  spend  their  lives  peacefully  in  their  mountain  home, 
among  the  warm-hearted  villagers  who  would  willingly 
have  laid  down  their  lives  for  the  beloved  pastor  Hedriech 
or  his  gentle  Genevra. 


A  NIGHT  THOUGHT. 

BY    MRS.    J  E TONS. 

Yea,  though  I  walk  through  the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death,  I  will  fear  no  evil,  for  Thoa 
art  with  me. — Ptalm  xxiii. 

THOU  must  go  forth  alone,  my  soul ! 

Thou  must  go  forth  alone — 
To  other  scenes,  to  other  worlds, 

That  mortal  hath  not  known. 
Thou  must  go  forth  alone,  my  soul — 

To  tread  the  narrow  vale ; 
But  He,  whose  word  is  sure,  hath  said 

His  comforts  shall  not  fail. 

Thou  must  go  forth  alone,  my  soul ! 

Along  the  darksome  way  ; 
Where  the  bright  sun  has  never  shed 

His  warm  and  gladsome  ray. 
And  yet  the  Sun  of  Righteousness 

Shall  rise  amidst  the  gloom, 
And  scatter  from  thy  trembling  gaze 

The  shadows  of  the  tomb. 

Thou  must  go  forth  alone,  my  soul ! 

To  meet  thy  God  above ; 
But  shrink  not — he  has  said,  my  soul, 

He  is  a  God  of  love. 
His  rod  and  staff  shall  comfort  thee 

Across  the  dreary  road, 
Till  thou  shalt  join  the  blessed  ones, 

In  Heaven's  serene  abode. 


108 


THE  MONEY  DIGGERS;  OE,  THE  FATAL  PASSION. 

[Continued.] 
NARRATIVE. 

"!N  the  year  1765,  I  came  from  Havana  to  New  Orleans 
in  an  English  ship,  on  a  trading  voyage.  Our  captain  being 
exceedingly  tyrannical,  and  having  abused  the  crew,  a  num- 
ber of  us  determined  to  run  away  as  soon  as  we  reached  the 
port,  which  plan  we  successfully  carried  into  execution. 
After  spending  some  time  about  the  city,  and  my  money 
being  all  exhausted,  I  began  to  look  about  for  a  chance  to 
ship  on  another  voyage. 

"  One  day>  as  I  sat  in  a  sailor's  boarding  house,  a  man  came 
to  ship  some  men  for  a  voyage  to  the  West  India  Islands, 
and  offering  high  wages,  I  immediately  shipped.  On  going 
on  board,  I  was  somewhat  surprised  at  the  singular  appear- 
ance of  the  craft,  and  more  so  at  the  number  of  men  on  the 
deck.  It  was  not  a  merchant  ship  as  I  supposed,  but  a 
clipper  brig  of  about  two  hundred  tons  burthen,  very  sharp, 
and  with  a  clear  run,  built  expressly  for  sailing.  There 
were  on  board,  as  near  as  I  could  judge,  about  fifty  men,  of 
every  possible  description.  I  expressed  some  surprise  at  the 
number  of  hands,  but  was  informed  that  most  of  them  were 
passengers  to  the  West  Indies.  Immediately  on  my  arrival 
all  hands  were  called  to  get  under  way,  and  in  a  few  minutes 
we  were  running  down  the  river  and  out  to  sea.  I  perceived 
that  my  judgment  of  the  craft  was  correct,  as  I  never  before 
saw  canvass  spread  on  a  faster  sailer. 

"  After  running  a  few  hours,  all  hands  were  called  on  the 
main  deck,  and  the  captain,  whose  name  was  Legras — " 
here  S.  started,  and  laid  his  hand  on  the  shoulder  of  the  sol- 
dier, but  immediately  controlling  himself,  he  said,  "  Did  you 
hear  a  step  ?"  Both  listened,  but  all  was  silence,  when  the 
soldier  resumed — "I  was  saying,  we  were  all  paraded  upon 
the  main  deck,  and  the  captain  proceeded  to  harangue  us. 
'  Now  my  lads,'  said  he,  '  we  are  fairly  launched,  and  well 
at  sea,  and  our  voyage  is  before  us:  this  craft,  you  are 


THE   MONEY   DIGGERS.  109 

aware,  is  a  kind  of  a  privateer ;  we  shall  not  hoist  the  flag 
of  any  nation,  but  shall  have  one  of  our  own,  and  consider 
all  men  our  enemies.  As  our  craft  is  not  large,  and  our 
stores  considerable,  we  cannot  accommodate  many  prisoners, 
but  shall  send  them  on  a  furlough.  We  shall  soon  look 
more  like  self-defence,  and  less  like  peace,  and  as  to  being 
overhauled  by  any  craft,  let  me  assure  you  that  the  timber 
isn't  yet  grown  that  will  sail  with  the  VELOCITY.  All  hands 
dress  the  ship.'  This  short  harangue  was  received  with 
tremendous  cheers  by  the  whole  crew.  I  saw  at  once  that  I 
was  among  a  gang  of  pirates.  To  escape  now  was  impos- 
sible, and  my  only  alternative  was  to  put  on  the  best  face  I 
could,  and  at  the  first  opportunity  to  run  away. 

"  The  crew  immediately  disappeared  below,  and  soon  re- 
turned dressed  in  red  shirts  and  white  trowsers,  with  a 
small  Spanish  cap.  A  brace  of  huge  pistols  and  a  savage 
cutlass  completed  their  equipment.  The  hatches  were  then 
removed  and  our  armament  hoisted  on  deck,  consisting  of 
eight  long  twelves  and  a  twenty-four  pounder  as  a  bow  chase. 
In  a  very  short  time  our  little  craft  was  transformed  into  as 
neat  a  specimen  of  an  armed  brig  as  was  ever  rigged,  and  we 
put  away  for  the  Spanish  main. 

"I  will  not  attempt  to  follow  that  horrid  cruise ;  would 
God  I  could  forget  it !  my  heart  sickens  at  the  recollection  ! 
For  eight  months  that  cruise  was  continued,  and  marked  by 
blood  and  carnage  and  plunder !  O,  my  brain  burns,  O 
God  !"  and  the  poor  wretch  clasped  his  head  with  his  hands, 
and  remained  silent  a  few  moments,  and  then  resumed :  "I 
was  forced  to  do  my  part,  or  walk  the  plank  with  the  un- 
happy victims. 

"  We  at  last  learned  that  several  armed  vessels  were  out 
expressly  after  us,  and  our  commander  decided  to  put  away 
to  the  north  until  the  excitement  was  allayed  somewhat. 
We  accordingly  laid  our  course  for  the  coast  of  the  North 
American  colonies. 

"One  morning,  when  we  were  off  Cape  Cod,  the  look-out 
at  mast-head  cried  out  'Sail  ho  !'  '  Where  away?'  shouted 
the  captain,  who  was  on  deck.  '  On  our  weather  quarter.' 
was  the  answer.  All  eyes  were  turned  in  that  direction,  and 
we  could  just  make  out  her  top  sails  as  she  was  hull  down. 


110  THE   MONEY    DIGGERS. 

"  At  this  time  we  were  becalmed  very  nearly,  but  it  was 
evident  the  strange  sail  was  bringing  up  a  breeze  with  her, 
as  her  sails  were  becoming  every  moment  more  distinct.  All 
sail  was  got  upon  the  brig,  and  we  soon  felt  a  light  puff  of 
air,  and  began  to  move  through  the  water  with  our  head 
to  the  north-east.  By  this  time  the  hull  of  the  chaser  could 
be  seen,  and  our  captain  made  her  out  to  be  a  ship,  and  he 
judged,  armed. 

"His  intention  was  now  declared  to  be  to  head  her  well  up 
north,  and  then,  when  night  closed  in,  to  get  the  weather  gauge 
of  her  and  run  out  to  sea.  We  were  watching  the  stranger 
with  eagerness  as  she  was  rapidly  nearing  us,  having  a  fine 
wind,  when  the  man  at  mast-head  again  sung  out  '  Sail  ho  ! ' 
'  Where  away?'  was  the  response.  'On  our  weather  bow,' 
was  the  reply.  Our  eyes  were  turned  in  that  direction,  and 
sure  enough  there  was  a  ship  in  full  view  coming  down 
directly  across  our  bow.  The  glass  made  her  out  to  be  a 
frigate  with  English  colors. 

"  We  were  now  in  a  critical  situation.  We  could  not 
contend  with  any  chance  of  success,  and  our  only  hope  lay 
in  escape ;  but  this  seemed  almost  impossible.  As  such  was 
the  position  of  the  ships  that  we  were  cut  off  from  getting  to 
sea,  and  so  long  had  we  been  out  that  our  brig's  bottom  had 
become  so  foul  that  she  did  not  sail  as  well  as  usual. 

"Our  brig's  head  was  now  hauled  more  to  the  north,  and 
being  before  the  wind,  which  had  freshened  considerably, 
she  went  off  like  a  race-horse.  Land  was  in  sight  all  along 
on  our  lea  beam,  and  it  was  evident  we  could  not  run  far  on 
this  course  without  running  ashore. 

"  The  first  frigate  seen  had  been  signalizing  her  consort 
for  some  time,  and  now  we  saw  them  on  our  bow,  head- 
ing on  the  same  course  with  ourselves,  evidently  to  pre- 
vent our  getting  to  sea,  and  of  course  to  run  us  ashore.  Our 
captain  had  some  acquaintance  with  the  coast,  and  now 
announced  his  intention  of  running  into  Penobscot  bay,  and 
if  the  frigates  followed  him  in,  of  running  up  the  Penobscot 
river,  for  as  we  drew  much  less  water  than  either  of  the 
enemy,  we  could  run  with  safety  where  they  would  not 
venture. 

"It  was  now  late  in  the  afternoon,  and  the  wind  had  in- 


THE   MONEY   DIGGERS.  Ill 

creased  so  that  we  were  making  ten  knots  per  hour.  As  yet 
we  had  been  able  to  keep  out  of  the  range  of  shot,  and  were 
now  within  the  bay,  and  were  skimming  over  this  beautiful 
sheet  of  water.  When  we  made  the  mouth  of  the  river  the 
frigates  were  not  in  sight.  We  now  shortened  sail  and  ran 
slowly  up  the  river.  We  had  little  fear  that  the  frigates 
would  follow  that  night,  if  at  all,  and  night  coming  on,  we 
came  to  an  anchor.  The  next  morning  we  weighed,  and 
ran  up  to  the  head  of  the  tide  waters.  For  the  present  we 
felt  secure,  but  the  probability  was  that  the  frigates  would 
send  their  boats  up  to  attack  us  if  they  had  not  missed  the 
entrance  to  the  river.  But  with  our  brig  moored  across  the 
river,  and  our  guns  heavily  charged  with  grape  and  canister 
we  had  little  to  fear  from  them. 

"We  had  on  board  a  large  quantity  of  rich  goods  besides 
our  treasure;  this  we  determined  to  take  on  shore  and  bury, 
and  if  we  escaped  the  frigates  we  could  return  and  take  it 
away. 

"Accordingly,  the  treasure  chest  was  hoisted  out  of  the 
run  and  taken  on  shore  on  a  point  of  land  formed  by  the 
junction  oi  a  considerable  stream  with  the  main  river,  carried 
up  the  bank,  and  buried." 

S became  much  agitated. 

"Could  you  describe  the  spot?"  said  he. 

"  Yes ;  but  let  me  first  finish  my  story.  We  lay  here  a 
number  of  days,  and  yet  no  enemy  had  appeared.  The  con- 
clusion was  that  not  being  acquainted  with  the  coast,  they 
missed  us  as  night  came  on,  and  supposed  we  had  got  to  sea, 
and  then  they  would  stand  off  in  search  of  us.  So  plausible 
did  this  appear,  that  we  determined  to  weigh  and  run  down, 
leaving  the  money  buried,  and  then,  if  all  wa:  clear,  we 
could  easily  send  the  boats  back  and  take  it. 

"  The  next  morning  we  set  sail  and  run  down  the  river. 
All  sense  of  danger  disappeared  as  we  run  near  the  mouth 
of  the  river,  and  no  sign  of  an  enemy  appeared.  We  went 
bowling  along  full  of  reckless  mirth  and  cracking  our  jokes 
upon  the  Johnny  Bulls  whom  we  had  so  completely  duped 
but  a  few  days  before.  You  recollect  a  large  and  high 
island  lying  just  in  the  mouth  of  the  river  and  dividing  it  in 
two  parts ;  well,  just  as  we  emerged  from  the  mouth  of  the 


112  THE   MONEY   DIGGERS. 

river,  and  came  around  the  lower  point  of  the  island,  there 
lay  both  frigates,  with  sails  in  the  brails,  and  ports  all  triced 
up.  Before  we  could  alter  our  course  a  point,  a  line  of  jets 
of  white  smoke  spouted  from  the  ports  of  one  of  them,  and  a 
crash  was  heard  on  board  us  as  if  every  timber  head  was 
knocked  out  of  place,  and  the  thunder  of  a  broadside  came 
upon  us  like  the  shock  of  doom.  Our  foremast  went  by  the 
board,  a  half  score  of  poor  fellows  were  cut  down,  and  we 
received  a  number  of  shot  between  wind  and  water.  That 
single  broadside  made  a  wreck  of  us.  A  boat  lay  along- 
side, into  which  the  captain,  his  nephew,  and  a  few  others 
leaped,  and  cutting  the  painter,  pulled  for  the  shore,  which 
was  distant  but  a  few  rods. 

"The  boats  of  the  frigates  immediately  pulled  for  us,  and 
resistance  was  useless.  We  were  soon  transferred  to  the 
frigates  and  put  in  irons,  taken  to  Halifax  and  put  upon  trial 
for  piracy.  As  my  participation  in  the  mad  and  diabolical 
enterprise  was  shown  to  be  involuntary,  I  was  admitted 
king's  evidence  and  spared;  the  rest  were  executed." 

"  Do  you  suppose  the  money  is  yet  buried  there?"  said 

"  I  do  not  know ;  as  the  captain  and  some  others  escaped, 
I  should  think  it  not  unlikely  that  they  had  taken  it  away." 

But  a  new  light  broke  upon  S .  He  now  saw  what 

led  to  the  location  of  the  Frenchman  on  the  Penobscot,  and 
he  concluded  that  the  gold  could  not  be  far  from  him.  At 
any  rate,  he  wanted  a  particular  description  of  the  locality, 
concealing  from  the  pirate  the  fact  of  the  existence  of  Legras. 

"I  can  lead  you  to  the  spot,"  said  he  to  S .  I  am 

determined  to  desert  at  the  first  opportunity.  You  will  soon 
return  home,  and  then  I  will  join  you,  and  we  will  make  the 
search."  At  this  moment  the  bugle  of  the  fort  sounded  the 
retreat,  and  they  were  obliged  to  hasten  in  to  answer  to  the 
roll-call. 

The  next  morning  the  mess  to  which  S belonged  had 

gathered  around  their  repast.  But  while  S was  thought- 
ful and  low-spirited,  the  pirate  soldier  was  uncommonly 
cheerful,  so  much  so  as  to  attract  the  notice  of  his  compan- 
ions, who  rallied  him  on  the  great  change.  He  had  made  a 
clean  breast,  and  felt  relieved.  As  they  were  taking  their 


THE   MONEY    DIGGERS.  113 

meal,  the  American  battery  opened  their  fire  as  usual  upon 
the  fort,  and  a  ball  from  the  redoubt  entering  the  tent,  struck 
the  pirate,  and  the  top  of  his  head  fell  among  the  rations, 
followed  in  a  moment  by  the  stunning  report.  The  group 
sprang  to  their  feet,  gazing  on  each  other  in  mute  horror ;  the 
pirate  had  gone  to  his  account. 

The  time  of  the  service  of  S and  his  companions  had 

expired,  and  they  returned  home.  But  S.  carried  with  him 
a  burning  passion  for  the  buried  gold.  Never  had  he  been 
so  excited;  to  be  rich  was  his  sole  wish.  He  could  think  of 
nothing  else ;  he  dreamed  of  it ;  he  saw  in  his  sleep  the  iron 
chest ;  he  lifted  the  lid,  and  the  glitter  of  the  gold  so  dazzled 
his  eyes,  that  a  mist  would  come  before  him,  and  though  he 
could  feel  the  iron  chest,  he  could  not  see  the  gold ;  and  then 
he  would  awake,  trembling  in  every  joint. 

He  now  resolved  to  make  a  confidant  of  one  of  his  neigh- 
bors, and  with  him  to  share  the  gains  of  the  enterprise.  He 
recollected  to  have  seen  the  Frenchman  and  his  companion 
often  pass  up  by  the  point  in  a  canoe  and  land,  but  as  the 
settlers  were  often  passing  backwards  and  forwards  it,  at 
the  time,  excited  no  surprise,  but  now  he  determined  to 
watch  them.  Seeing  them  one  day  put  off  from  the  shore 
in  their  skiff,  he  secreted  himself  in  a  cluster  of  bushes  near 
the  bank  of  the  river,  and  awaited  their  approach.  It  was 
not  long  before  he  saw  them  land  a  few  rods  above  the  place 
of  his  concealment,  and  pass  up  the  bank  to  a  large  rock 
which  still  lies  in  the  same  place,  earnestly  engaged  in  con- 
versation, but  as  it  was  carried  on  in  French,  he  could  get 
no  clue  to  the  character  of  the  communications.  Presently 
he  saw  the  old  man  point  to  a  spot  near  the  eastern  side  of 
the  rock,  and  addressing  something  to  the  young  man,  turned 
away ;  but  as  he  did  so,  the  young  man  picked  up  a  small 
stone,  and  tossing  it  towards  the  spot,  immediately  followed 
his  uncle  to  the  boat. 

S immediately  surmised  that  the  appearance  of  the 

English  at  the  settlement  had  alarmed  the  pirates,  and  that 
they  were  about  to  decamp,  bearing  the  treasure  with  them. 
It  was  clear,  that  although  they  might*  have  divided  the 
treasure  with  their  comrades  who  escaped  at  the  taking  of 
the  brig,  their  share  was  still  buried  on  the  spot. 

8 


114  EARLY  LOST,  EARLY  SAVED. 

What  he  did  must  be  done  quickly.  Delay  would  be 
ruin.  And  now  there  was  but  a  step  between  him  and 
boundless  wealth.  No  more  of  sleep  until  the  treasure  was 
his. 

[To  be  continued.] 


EARLY  LOST,  EARLY  SAVED. 

BY     GEORGE     W.     BETHVNS. 

WITHIN  her  downy  cradle,  there  lay  a  little  child, 

And  a  group  of  hovering  angels,  unseen  upon  her  smiled ; 

A  strife  arose  among  them,  a  loving,  holy  strife, 

Which  should  shed  the  richest  blessing  over  the  new  born  life. 

One  breathed  upon  her  features,  and  the  babe  in  beauty  grew, 
With  a  cheek  like  morning's  blushes,  and  an  eye  of  azure  hue ; 
Till  every  one  who  saw  her,  was  thankful  for  the  sight 
Of  a  face  so  sweet  and  radiant  with  ever  fresh  delight. 

Another  gave  her  accents  and  a  voice  as  musical 
As  a  spring-bird's  joyous  carol,  or  a  rippling  streamlet's  fall ; 
Till  all  who  heard  her  laughing,  or  her  words  of  childish  grace, 
Loved  as  much  to  listen  to  her,  as  to  look  upon  her  face. 

Another  brought  from  heaven,  a  clear  and  gentle  mind, 
And  within  the  lovely  casket,  the  precious  gem  enshrined  ; 
Till  all  who  knew  her  wondered,  that  GOD  should  be  so  good, 
As  to  bless  with  such  a  spirit,  our  desert  world  and  rude. 

Thus  did  she  grow  in  beauty,  in  melody  and  truth, 
The  budding  of  her  childhood,  just  opening  into  youth ; 
And  to  our  hearts  yet  dearer,  every  moment  than  before, 
She  became,  though  we  thought  fondly,  heart  could  not  love  her  more- 
Then  outspake  another  angel,  nobler,  brighter  than  the  rest, 
As  with  strong  arm,  but  tender,  he  caught  her  to  his  breast : 
"  Ye  have  made  her  all  too  lovely,  for  a  child  of  mortal  race, 
But  no  shade  of  human  sorrow,  shall  darken  o'er  her  face  : 

"  Ye  have  tuned  to  gladness  only,  the  accents  of  her  tongue, 
And  no  wail  of  human  anguish,  shall  from  her  lips  be  wrung; 
Nor  shall  the  soul  that  shineth,  so  purely  from  within, 
Her  form  of  earth-born  frailty,  ever  know  the  taint  of  sin  : 

"  Lulled  in  my  faithful  bosom,  I  will  bear  her  far  away, 
Where  there  is  no  sin  nor  anguish,  nor  sorrow  nor  decay  ; 
And  mine  a  gift  more  glorious,  than  all  your  gifts  shall  be — 
Lo  !  I  crown  her  happy  spirit,  with  immortality  !" 

Then  on  his  heart  our  darling  yielded  up  her  gentle  breath, 

For  the  stronger,  brighter  angel,  who  loved  her  best,  was  DEATH 


REMINISCENCES   OF   A   PASTOR.  115 


REMINISCENCES  OF  A  PASTOR. 

[Concluded.] 

AT  this  moment  my  sister  Helen  entered  the  room,  and, 
perceiving  me  much  agitated,  inquired,  "What  is  the  mat- 
ter, Mary?"  "  Nothing  in  particular,"  said  I.  "  But  I  am 
sure  there  is  something  the  matter,  for  you  are  evidently 
much  excited."  "  Well,  if  I  must  tell  you — brother  has 
said  some  hard  things  to  me.  He  is  violently  opposed  to  my 
receiving  the  addresses  of  Mr.  W. ;  says  that  '  he  is  a  worth- 
less fellow,  and  if  I  do  not  abandon  him  he  will  disown  me 
as  his  sister.'  I  cannot,  and  I  will  not  comply  with  his 
wishes.  They  are  unreasonable.  They  are  founded  in  my 
brother's  caprice,  and  certainly  he  has  no  right  to  make  any 
such  demands  of  me,  and  I  will  not  comply  with  them  if  I 
have  to  endure  all  the  consequences  which  he  threatens.  I 
am  willing  to  hear  his  advice ;  but  am  not  quite  prepared 
to  be  obsequious  to  all  his  whims.  What  does  he  know  of 
Mr.  W.  ?  Nothing  personally  he  admits.  It 's  all  hearsay. 
And  upon  mere  hearsay  he  convicts,  sentences,  and  executes 
him,  and  is  ready  to  hang  me  upon  the  same  gallows  with 
him.  I  ask,  Helen,  is  this  brotherly,  and  is  there  the  least 
exhibition  of  reason  in  such  a  hasty  decision  ?  I  am  sure  you 
will  agree  with  me  when  I  say  that  our  brother  John  is  evi- 
dently a  monomaniac." 

"No,  my  sister  Mary,  if  I  must  be  honest  and  frank 
with  you,  I  must  say  that  though  brother  John  may 
have  been  a  little  hasty  and  severe  with  you,  yet  he  is 
not  to  be  blamed  for  his  decided  opposition  to  any  par- 
ticular attachment  between  yourself  and  Mr.  W.  To  tell 
you  the  whole  truth,  he  has  obtained  his  information  respect- 
ing this  young  gentleman,  if  I  may  so  call  him,  through  me. 
Mr.  K.  was  a  classmate  with  him  in  college,  and  knows  all 
about  him.  He  has  given  to  me  his  full  history.  And  I 
deem  it  proper  that  you  should  know  the  facts  as  they  are, 
so  that  you  may  not  throw  yourself  away,  and  be  ruined, 
irretrievably  ruined.  You  know  that  Mr.  K.  is  a  gentleman 
of  truth,  and  what  he  says  can  be  relied  upon.  I  have  not 


116  REMINISCENCES    OF   A   PASTOR. 

told  brother  the  worst  features  in  his  history,  for  if  I  did,  I 
was  afraid  that  he  would  treat  him  uncourteously  before  the 
whole  subject  was  sufficiently  explained  to  you.  Now,  sister 
Mary,  I  am  prepared,  if  you  desire  it,  to  give  you  the  whole 
story  as  I  have  received  it  from  K.  himself." 

"Of  course  I  will  hear  you,  but  pray;  Helen,  don't  paint; 
tell  the  facts  simply  as  they  are." 

"No,  Mary,  I  will  not  put  on  one  shade  more  than  the 
original,  and  then  you  can  judge  for  yourself.  And  I  trust 
that,  whatever  may  be  your  affection  for  him,  you  will 
not  allow  yourself  to  become  the  victim  of  an  unworthy 
attachment.  Remember,  sister,  this  is  not  romance — it  is 
real  life — the  whole  life  is  concerned.  Your  destiny  for  this 
world,  and,  for  aught  I  know,  the  world  to  come,  is  impli- 
cated in  this  affair.  To  begin :  Mr.  K.  admits  that  Mr.  W. 
is  a  very  bright,  talented  young  man.  That  he  was  a  fair 
scholar — that  he  passed  through  his  college  course  without 
being  particularly  impeached  by  the  faculty,  and  that  he 
graduated  with  some  honor.  But  such  was  his  artfulness, 
that  the  college  authorities  knew  but  little  of  his  true  char- 
acter. He  succeeded  well  in  keeping  the  veil  over  their 
eyes,  so  that  they  saw  but  little  of  his  chicanery.  They 
knew  him  as  a  student  only,  and  as  he  was  generally  well 
prepared  for  his  recitations,  he  stood  well  with  his  profes- 
sors. But  his  private  character  was  well  known  to  his 
classmates.  Among  them  he  was  proverbial  for  his  disso- 
lute habits.  He  was  a  spendthrift,  and  a  gambler.  In  one 
single  night  he  has  been  known  to  have  squandered  away 
more  than  $100,  and  then  to  make  it  all  right  with  his 
guardian,  inform  him,  by  letter,  that  he  had  either  lost  it  or 
had  it  stolen  from  him.  He  was  also  very  licentious,  and 
so  corrupt  was  he  as  a  libertine  that  Mr.  K.  assured  me 
a  detail  of  his  deeds  of  darkness  could  not  consistently  be 
ever  stated  to  me.  Withal  he  was  a  drunkard — not  a  com- 
mon drunkard,  but  he  would  often  become  so  intoxicated 
as  to  be  unable  to  walk  without  assistance.  That  at  such 
times  he  was  exceedingly  abusive  and  quarrelsome.  On 
one  of  these  occasions  he  fought  with  one  of  the  students 
much  like  himself,  but  being  a  little  more  drunk  than  his 
antagonist,  was  severely  beaten,  and  for  a  whole  week  was 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A   PASTOR.  117 

unable  to  go  out  of  his  room.  He  excused  himself  to  the 
faculty — said  that  a  horse  had  run  away  with  him,  thrown 
him  out  of  a  gig,  and  injured  him  very  severely.  This  last 
feature  in  his  character  is  worse  than  all  the  rest.  He  is  a 
drunkard.  He  has  been  a  drunkard  for  years.  He  is  one 
still,  and  he  will  probably  die  a  poor  miserable  inebriate. 
Think  of  this,  my  sister  Mary.  How  would  you  feel  to  have 
your  husband  come  home  drunk  and  abuse  you — perhaps 
unmercifully  beat  you  ?  Let  me  forewarn  you,  that  if  you 
ever  marry  him  you  will  know  what  this  means  to  your 
sorrow.  My  advice  therefore  is — escape  for  your  life — dis- 
solve all  connection  with  him  at  once,  and  determine  not  to 
sacrifice  yourself  by  becoming  united  to  such  a  heartless  and 
corrupt  person  as  Mr.  W.  evidently  appears  to  be." 

I  must  confess,  at  this  very  candid  recital  I  was  for  a  few 
moments  somewhat  alarmed  and  shaken.  I  had  confidence 
in  Mr.  K.  He  afterwards  married  my  sister,  and  is  now  a 
clergyman.  For  a  moment  my  judgment  seemed  to  triumph, 
and  I  thought  if  this  be  true  I  will  be  advised — but  this 
K-tional  view  of  the  subject  was  but  transient.  My  affec- 
tions soon  predominated,  and  I  was  ready  to  excuse  him, 
and  hope  for  better  things  for  the  future.  I  sat  mute  for 
some  time.  At  length  the  feelings  of  my  young  and  roman- 
tic heart,  rather  than  sober  reason,  prompted  me  to  speak. 
"  Sister  Helen,  all  this  may  be  true,  and  the  consequences 
which  you  prophesy  never  take  place.  Don't  you  know  it 
is  a  common  proverb  that  '  everybody  must  at  some  period 
of  their  lives  sow  their  wild  oats  ?'  May  we  not  reasonably 
suppose  that  he  has  been  '  sowing  his  wild  oats,'  and  if  so, 
is  it  not  better  now  than  when  he  gets  older?  He  has  pro- 
bably got  about  through  by  this  time.  And  may  we  not 
hope  that  he  will  soon  settle  down,  and  become  a  steady, 
and  influential  man  in  society?" 

Helen  replied,  "As  to  the  proverb  you  name,  it  is  an 
excuse  for  immorality  only  to  be  found  in  works  of  fiction, 
with  which  1  fear  you  have  been  too  conversant.  Man  is  a 
creature  of  habit.  Bad  habits  early  acquired,  generally  grow 
with  our  growth,  and  strengthen  with  our  strength.  If  they 
be  'wild  oats'  when  'sown'  the  harvest  that  follows  is  still 
'  wild  oats,'  with  a  terrible  increase.  You  know  the  Bible 


118  REMINISCENCES    OF   A   PASTOR. 

says,  £  Be  not  deceived,  whatsoever  a  man  soweth  that  shall 
he  also  reap.'  Now  as  a  proof  of  this,  from  some  inquiries 
which  I  have  lately  made  into  the  private  character  of  Mr. 
W.,  I  learn  from  undoubted  authority  that  his  bad  habits  are 
awfully  increasing  upon  him.  That  he  secretly  mingles  in 
that  kind  of  society  for  which  gamblers  and  drunkards  only 
would  feel  an  affinity.  His  having  money  will  only  increase 
his  means  of  dissipation,  strengthen  its  incentives,  and  hasten 
his  ruin."  So  saying,  Helen  left  the  room  with  a  request 
that  I  should  ponder  well  upon  the  subject,  and  write  to  Mr. 
W.  a  decided  dismission. 

I  confess  that  I  was  overcome  by  the  arguments  of  my 
sister,  and  finally  concluded  that  if  my  father  was  of  the 
same  opinion  with  my  brother  and  sister,  I  would  make  the 
sacrifice  whatever  it  might  cost  me.  My  father  had  heard 
the  statements  of  Mr.  K.  but  had  not  expressed  any  opinion, 
and  therefore  his  mind  was  riot  yet  known  to  any  one 
but  himself.  I  knew  that  whatever  his  decisions  were,  I 
should  be  obliged  to  submit  to  them,  and  I  therefore  felt 
great  solicitude  to  know  what  they  would  be.  But  days 
passed  away  and  not  a  word  was  said.  Indeed,  my  father 
seemed  to  studiously  avoid  every  allusion  to  the  subject.  And 
I  was  much  perplexed  to  know  what  it  all  meant  In  the 
mean  time  I  wrote  to  Mr.  W.,  informing  him  of  the  objections 
which  my  brother  and  sister  had  urged  against  'him,  and 
requested  him  not  to  visit  me  again  until  I  obtained  the 
opinion  of  my  father.  At  this  Mr.  W.  was  enraged,  and 
became  more  fierce  than  ever  to  accomplish  his  purpose. 
He  employed  a  lawyer  of  known  respectability  to  see  my 
father,  and  while  he  allowed  his  friend  to  acknowledge  that 
he  had  been  a  little  wild  in  his  boyish  days,  declared  that 
now  he  was  as  steady  and  uniform  in  his  life,  and  upright 
in  his  morals  as  any  young  man  to  be  found  in  the  city ; 
that  every  report  to  the  contrary  was  false  and  slanderous. 
Strange,  indeed !  My  father,  though  a  very  judicious  and 
careful  man,  and  though  he  loved  me  tenderly,  listened  with 
complacency  to  all  this,  and  fully  believed  it.  His  mind 
was  made  up,  and  unfortunately  for  me  it  turned  in  favor 
of  Mr.  W. 

Soon  after  this  he  called  me  into  a  private  room — said 


REMINISCENCES   OF   A   PASTOR.  119 

that  he  had  "some  important  communications  to  make  to 
me."  I  well  knew  what  they  were.  I  trembled  lest  I 
should  feel  the  withering  force  of  his  veto.  He  began  by 
asking  me  some  questions — "How  long  have  you  been 
acquainted  with  Mr.  W.  ?" 

"  About  seven  months." 

"  Has  he  ever  expressed  a  desire  to  make  you  his  wife, 
and  while  he  has  offered  you  his  pledges,  has  he  solicited 
yours?" 

"He  has." 

"Are  you  mutually  pledged  one  to  the  other?" 

"  With  your  permission  sir,  we  are." 

"Is  that  the  condition,  and  the  only  condition?" 

"  It  is,  sir." 

"Well  child,  you  know,  and  I  know  how  decided  is  the 
opposition  from  your  brother  and  sister.  But  I  have  been 
at  some  pains  to  search  out  this  matter,  and  have  come  to 
the  conclusion  that  their  information  as  to  his  present  char- 
acter is  erroneous;  that  he  is  a  worthy  and  excellent 
young  man ;  that  his  prospects  for  this  world  are  very  fair, 
and  that  his  moral  principles  are  not  corrupt.  You  are 
therefore  at  liberty  to  act  your  pleasure  with  regard  to  the 
fulfilment  of  your  pledges  to  him ;  only  be  discreet,  and 
prudent,  advising  me  of  your  wishes  from  time  to  time." 

At  this  unexpected  decision  of  my  father  a  thrill  of  joy 
went  like  electricity  through  my  young  and  susceptible 
heart,  and  filled  me  with  ecstacy  I  was  sure  I  was  right 
My  father  was  on  my  side,  and  1  cared  not  who  else  was 
against  me.  I  had  a  feeling  of  triumph  which  raised  me 
above  the  opinions  of  others.  I  was  perfectly  independent, 
and  reckless  of  the  frowns  or  smiles  of  my  brother  and  sis- 
ter, and  I  was  not  backward  in  exhibiting  all  I  felt  in  my 
deportment  toward  them.  Whenever  they  mentioned  Mr. 
W.'s  name  to  me,  I  treated  all  they  said  with  perfect  con- 
tempt. They  soon  became  conscious  that  they  had  lost 
their  influence  with  me,  and  let  me  alone. 

I  wrote  to  Mr.  W.  and  informed  him  of  the  cordial  feelings 
of  my  father  toward  him,  and  invited  him  to  visit  me  when- 
ever it  suited  his  convenience.  It  was  not  long  before  he 
renewed  his  visits,  and  my  father  received  him  with  pater 


120 


REMINISCENCES    OF    A   PASTOR. 


nal  affection.  My  brother1  and  sister  treated  him  as  they 
would  any  stranger,  without  any  marked  attention ;  but 
nothing  was  said.  A  few  months  passed  away,  and  the 
bridal  day  arrived.  The  wedding  party  was  select,  though 
not  large — and  when  the  clergyman  solemnized  the  nuptial 
ties,  my  brother  and  sister  could  command  their  feelings  no 
longer.  They  were  sitting  side  by  side,  looking  solemnly 
and  most  intently  upon  us;  but  when  the  sealing  words  of 
the  covenant  were  repeated,  "  I  pronounce  thee  husband  and 
wife  together  in  the  name  of  the  Father,"  &c.,  the  tears 
gushed  from  their  eyes  in  spite  of  every  effort  to  repress 
them.  They  abruptly  left  the  room,  and  we  saw  no  more 
of  them  that  night.  Mr.  W.,  who  by  no  means  felt  himself 
inferior  to  them,  was  inspired  with  indignation,  which  made 
his  face  for  a  moment  of  a  scarlet  hue,  and  I  can  assure  you 
that  I  fully  sympathized  with  him.  Shortly,  however,  my 
feelings  were  calmed,  my  spirits  buoyant  as  ever  in  the 
recollection  that  now  I  had  secured  the  object  of  my  supreme 
affections.  Mr.  W.  never  spoke  to  them  afterwards  except 
upon  business,  nor  they  to  him.  Thus  we  were  severed, 
and  so  have  remained  to  this  hour.  These  facts,  dear  sir, 
will  explain  to  you  the  reason  why  I  have  studiously  avoided 
giving  them  any  information  respecting  my  present  situation. 

The  remainder  of  the  story  is  soon  told.  Mr.  W.  went 
into  business.  He  opened  a  large  mercantile  establishment, 
fixed  our  residence  in  the  most  fashionable  part  of  the  city, 
where  we  lived,  like  many  of  our  wealthy  neighbors,  in  a 
style  exceedingly  gratifying  to  my  pride  and  vanity.  Here 
I  imagined  myself  the  happiest  of  mortals.  My  husband 
was  kind  and  affectionate,  all  my  wishes  were  gratified,  and 
almost  anticipated.  Emphatically  I  lived  in  pleasure. 
Present  possession,  and  future  prospects  were  so  brilliant 
to  my  warm  and  youthful  imagination  that  I  fancied  that 
what  I  had  supposed  to  have  been  the  fabled  history  of  the 
fairies  might  have  been  a  reality,  and  the  fantastic  paintings 
of  romance  the  sober  truth.  I  was  intoxicated  with  earthly 
bliss,  and  verily  thought  that  heaven  itself  could  not  very 
far  exceed  that  happiness  which  I  really  enjoyed. 

For  two  years  nothing  of  importance  occurred  to  interrupt 
my  joy  or  to  excite  my  fears,  to  lessen  my  hopes,  or  becloud 


REMINISCENCES    OF   A    PASTOR.  121 

my  prospects.  And  I  still  believe  that  Mr.  W.,  during  this 
time  was  quite  a  reformed  man.  Though  still  fond  of  plea- 
sure, yet,  as  far  as  I  could  learn,  he  did  well  in  all  his  busi- 
ness transactions,  and  was  rapidly  growing  in  the  confidence 
of  the  mercantile  public. 

But,  alas !  how  did  my  joys  begin  to  wither,  my  hopes 
to  fade  away,  my  spirits  to  sink,  when  for  the  first  time  my 
suspicions  were  confirmed  that  Mr.  W.  not  only  took  the 
friendly  glass,  but  was  really  intoxicated.  At  first  I  thought 
it  might  have  been  an  inadvertence  which  would  not  be 
repeated.  But  in  this  I  was  mistaken.  It  was  repeated — 
not  every  day — but  frequently  evenings  after  the  business  of 
the  day  had  closed,  and  on  public  occasions.  To  my  sor- 
row I  saw  that  my  husband  was  a  drunkard.  Not  generally 
known  as  such — but  it  was  enough — aye,  it  was  too  much 
for  me — I  knew  it.  About  this  time  my  dear  father  died, 
and  I  had  no  relative  with  whom  to  counsel.  My  husband 
was  going  rapidly  to  destruction — I  saw  it — knew  it — and 
deplored  it.  But  what  could  I  do  1  Tears  and  entreaties 
were  in  vain  His  character  was  changing.  His  looks — 
his  actions,  were  all  different  from  what  they  used  to  be. 
His  face  was  bloated,  and  I  knew  the  cause.  At  one  time 
he  would  appear  exceedingly  simple,  and  at  another  morose 
and  severe  with  his  family. 

In  short,  he  soon  seemed  more  like  a  stranger  than  the 
husband  and  head  of  his  family.  A  few  years — and  what 
I  feared,  I  was  brought  to  realize.  He  became  a  bankrupt. 
His  property  was  sold  by  his  creditors,  and  he  was  a  de- 
graded drunkard  Just  as  my  furniture  was  to  be  sold,  and 
while  the  red  flag  of  the  auctioneer  was  hanging  out  of  my 
window,  Mr.  W.  expired,  a  raving  maniac. 

With  this  relation  Mrs.  W.  was  quite  overcome — and  she 
wept.  Poor  woman  !  I  could  but  weep  with  her.  After 
recovering  herself  a  little,  she  said,  "  Sir,  God  has  been  good 
to  me,  and  I  am  thankful  to  him  for  the  gracious  manner  in 
which  he  has  dealt  with  me.  It  has  been  the  means  of 
bringing  me  to  himself.  I  had  no  earthly  friend  to  whom  1 
could  go,  and  therefore  went  to  God  by  prayer  unceasing. 
I  trust  that  he  gave  me  repentance  unto  life  for  my  sins,  and 
spake  peace  to  my  troubled  conscience.  The  peace  of  God 
has  been  for  the  three  last  years  of  my  life  my  constant  and 


122  COUNSELS  FOR  THE  YOUNG. 

never  failing  support.  God  has  been  my  friend,  and  1 
put  my  trust  in  Him.  His  love  inspired  my  heart,  and  I 
could  say  { Abba  Father.'  The  Bible  has  been  my  constant 
companion,  and  its  sweet  promises  my  only  solace.  And  I 
can  say  that  '  all  things  work  together  for  good  to  them  that 
love  God.'  I  am  poor  in  this  world,  but  I  often  think  I  am 
'rich  in  faith.'  The  widow's  God  is  my  God,  and  the 
orphan's  God  the  God  of  my  children." 

I  was  delighted  to  hear  that  Mrs.  W.  in  all  her  sorrows 
had  sought  and  obtained  comfort  from  above.  I  saw  that  she 
had  come  forth  from  this  furnace,  a  bright  and  decided 
Christian,  though  she  was  not  a  member  of  any  Christian 
society.  I  determined  to  introduce  her  to  some  of  the  most 
influential  and  pious  females  of  my  church,  which  I  did  a 
few  days  afterwards.  Through  their  influence  she  removed 
her  residence  to  one  of  comfort ;  and  some  benevolent  indi- 
viduals helped  her  into  a  small  business,  which,  by  industry, 
so  far  increased,  that  she  not  only  supported  her  family  re- 
spectably, but  increased  her  capital.  She  became  a  member 
of  my  church,  and  an  efficient  Sabbath  School  superintendent. 
At  length  she  was  married  to  a  most  excellent,  and  influen- 
tial Christian — her  children  have  been  well  educated.  Mary 
is  now  the  wife  of  a  devoted  clergyman — Samuel  a  Sabbath 
School  teacher  and  a  member  of  the  church.  In  short,  the 
whole  family  are  happy  arid  prosperous.  A  reconciliation 
nas  been  effected  between  her  and  her  brother  and  sister, 
and  the  smiles  of  heaven  and  earth  seem  to  be  resting  upon 
them  all. 


COUNSELS  FOR  THE  YOUNG. — Never  be  cast  down  by  trifles.     If  a  spider 
breaks  his  thread  twenty  times,  twenty  times  will  he  mend  it  again.     Make 
up  your  minds  to  do  a  thing,  and  you  will  do  it.     Fear  not,  if  a  trouble 
comes  upon  you ;  keep  up  your  spirits  though  the  day  be  a  dark  one. 
"  Troubles  never  stop  forever, 

The  darkest  day  will  pass  away." 

If  the  sun  is  going  down,  look  up  to  the  stars  ;  if  the  earth  is  dark,  keep 
your  eyes  on  heaven.  With  God's  promises,  a  man  or  a  child  may  be 
cheerful. 

"  Never  despair  when  fog  's  in  the  air, 
A  sunshiny  morning  will  come  without  warning." 

Mind  what  you  run  alter !  Never  be  content  with  a  bubble  that  will 
burst,  or  a  fire-work  that  will  end  in  smoke  and  darkness.  Get  that  which 
you  can  keep,  and  which  is  worth  keeping. 

"Something  sterling  that  will  stay 
When  gold  and  silver  fly  away." 


PLEASANT   THOUGHTS — SACREDNESS   OF   TEARS.  123 


PLEASANT  THOUGHTS. 

TO  A  CHILD. 

THERE  are  pleasant  thoughts  in  thy  mild,  meek  eye, 

Thou  beautiful  and  fair  ! 
They  are  soft  as  shades  of  the  twilight  sky, 

Or  breath  of  summer  air. 

Ah  !  how  bright  the  hours  of  thy  mirthsome  glee 

Have  sped  their  swift-winged  flight ! 
And  thy  spirit  now,  roaming  "  fancy  free," 

Blends  with  the  calm  of  night. 

Art  thou  wondering  why  the  bright  butterfly 

Has  folded  now  his  wings? 
Dost  thou  list  again  for  the  red  breast's  cry, 

Whose  voice  no  longer  sings  ? 

Have  thy  thoughts  away  to  thy  mother  flown, 

Whose  words  are  all  of  love  ? 
Dost  thou  feel  her  kiss  by  the  soft  winds  borne 

To  thee,  her  bosom's  dovel 

Have  they  travelled  far  to  "  that  better  land," 

Of  which  thy  mother  tells  1 
Art  thou  roaming  now  with  those  angel  bands 

Beside  the  "  crystal  wells?" 

Ever  there,  fair  child,  may  thy  young  hopes  bide, 

Fixed  on  thy  God  and  heaven  ! 
Till  thy  soul  in  Christ  is  all  purified 

For  Him  by  whom  't  was  given. 

May  no  darker  cloud  ever  dim  thy  brow, 

Marking  thy  woman's  lot, 
Than  the  clear,  calm  light  which  is  on  thee  now, — 

The  light  of  pleasant  thought. 

[Ed.  of  Magnolia. 


SACREDNESS  OF  TEARS. — There  is  a  sacredness  in  tears. 
They  are  not  the  mark  of  weakness  but  of  power.  They 
speak  more  eloquently  than  ten  thousand  tongues.  They 
are  the  messengers  of  overwhelming  grief,  of  deep  contrition, 
of  unspeakable  love.  If  there  were  wanting  any  argument 
to  prove  that  man  is  not  mortal,  I  would  look  for  it  in  the 
strong,  convulsive  emotion  of  the  breast,  when  the  soul  has 


124  EDITOR'S  TABLE. 

been  deeply  agitated,  when  the  fountains  of  feeling  are 
rising,  and  when  tears  are  gushing  forth  in  crystal  streams. 
O,  speak  not  harshly  of  the  striken  one — weeping  in  silence  ! 
Break  not  the  deep  solemnity  by  rude  laughter,  or  intrusive 
footsteps.  Despise  not  a  woman's  tears — they  are  what 
made  her  an  angel.  Scoff  not  if  the  stern  heart  of  manhood 
is  sometimes  melted  to  tears  of  sympathy — they  are  what 
help  to  elevate  him  above  the  brute.  I  love  to  see  tears  of 
affection.  They  are  painful  tokens,  but  still  most  holy. 
There  is  pleasure  in  tears — an  awful  pleasure !  If  there 
were  none  on  earth  to  shed  a  tear  for  me,  I  should  be  loth 
to  live ;  and  if  no  one  might  weep  over  my  grave,  I  could 
never  die  in  peace. — Dr.  Johnson. 


EDITOR'S  TABLE. 

WE  do  not  like  to  commence  our  new  career  with  many 
promises ;  they  are  easily  made,  but  the  performing  them, 
— "ay,  there 's  the  rub."  We  do  not  like  either,  to  say  much 
of  our  inabilities ;  our  readers  will  find  those  out  soon  enough. 
We  can  say,  however,  that  we  mean  to  do  our  best  to  make 
the  Magnolia  an  entertaining  and  welcome  periodical.  To 
be  sure,  our  best  efforts  may  not  amount  to  much,  and  we 
freely  admit  that  we  rely  chiefly  upon  our  contributors  for 
the  interest  of  our  publication.  Several  friends,  whose  names 
are  in  themselves  a  host,  have  promised  us  their  aid,  and 
our  readers  may  have  high  expectations  from  them  without 
fear  of  disappointment. 

The  short  time  given  us  for  preparation  must  be  our 
excuse  for  any  deficiencies  in  the  present  number.  As  for  a 
lack  of  editorial,  we  are  sure  a  discerning  public  will  never 
"  set  that  down  in  malice"  as  one  of  our  faults. 


"THE  ALMIGHTY  DOLLAR." — This  is  a  phrase  frequently 
thrown  at  us  by  foreigners.  It  has  been  often  argued  about, 
and  we  believe  proper  resentment  has  been  sufficiently  dis- 
played. For  our  own  part,  we  have  no  disposition  to  quar- 


EDITOR'S  TABLE.  125 

rel  with  it.  We  believe  a  dollar  is  more  almighty  in  our 
beloved  country  than  in  any  other  on  the  face  of  the  earth. 
A  dollar  bestowed  upon  a  poor  family  here  can  keep  cif  star- 
vation for  a  long  time.  It  will  purchase  a  dress  for  a  desti- 
tute girl,  that  a  European  peasant  would  consider  worthy  to 
be  a  bridal  robe.  How  long  it  would  keep  the  hearth-stone 
warm  for  the  shivering  little  ones  !  A  little  girl  at  our  elbow 
says  a  dollar  will  buy  nearly  a  dozen  Testaments  for  the  hea- 
then, and  she  quotes  high  authority.  What  a  book  it  will 
bring  you  !  And  if  you  economize  and  bestow  it  upon  a  cir- 
culating library,  why,  you  may  have  an  intellectual  feast  for 
the  whole  winter,  and  bards  and  priests  and  kings  may  be 
your  guests.  In  the  western  country,  (we  presume  all  our 
readers  are  acquainted  with  the  geographical  description  of 
this  famous  locality  given  by  a  traveller  to  it,  who  said  it 
was  within  half  an  hour  of  sundown,)  which  everybody 
knows  is  somewhere,  you  can,  with  a  few  of  these  "almighty 
dollars,"  buy  an  estate  that  a  family  of  England's  poor 
would  toil  for  in  vain  through  successive  generations.  A 
New  England  citizen  pays  a  dollar  or  two,  (we  do  not 
know  the  exact  sum.)  for  what  is  called  the  school  tax,  and 
his  children,  a  round  dozen  if  he  have  them,  are  provided 
with  educations  fitting  them  for  almost  any  station  in  life. 
Who  blames  foreigners  for  talking  of  our"  almighty  dollars?" 
We  have  several  smart  women  (we  use  this  New  Eng- 
land word  because  we  like  it — it  expresses  our  meaning) 
among  our  acquaintance,  who  boast  "  how  far  they  can 
make  a  dollar  go,"  and  we  venture  to  say  they  will  think  of 
a  thousand  things  which  we  have  omitted.  And  now,  gentle 
reader,  we  wish  to  speak  as  modestly  as  possible,  but  we 
beg  you  just  to  look  at  our  magazine.  It  will  come  to  you 
every  month,  neatly  covered,  well  printed,  furnished  with  a 
piece  of  music  and  two  embellishments,  of  which  the  present 
number  gives  you  a  specimen,  for  one  dollar  a  year.  We  be- 
lieve with  the  oft-quoted  motto,  that  "  variety's  the  spice  of 
life,  which  gives  it  all  its  flavor ;  "  and  we  intend  to  serve  up 
tales,  sketches  of  character,  descriptions  of  places,  poetry, 
book-notices,  &c.,  to  animate  the  warm  summer  afternoon, 
and  cheer  the  long  winter  evening.  We  hope  our  subscri- 
bers may  feel,  at  the  end  of  the  year,  that  "the  dollar"  has 
been  well  invested. 


126  EDITOR'S  TABLE. 

Three  or  four  centuries  since,  a  dollar  would  have  been 
thought  an  "  almighty"  one  indeed,  which  would  have  pur- 
chased such  a  work.  A  book  then  was  a  fortune  which 
princes 

" dying,  mentioned  within  their  wills, 

Bequeathing  it  as  a  rich  legacy 
Unto  their  issue." 

Had  our  subscribers  lived  in  those  days,  they  would  have 
been  favored  with  the  Magnolia  at  perhaps  two  or  three  hun- 
dred times  its  present  price.  Our  unpretending  little  period- 
ical, then,  may  be  regarded  as  one  of  the  "  proofs  of  the 
world's  progress,"  about  which  people  talk  so  learnedly. 
We  hope  the  "  generous  public"  will  furnish  another,  in  the 
patronage  they  may  give  us.  We  promise  to  use  our  best 
endeavors  to  make  their  dollar  an  "almighty"  profitable 
one. 


WE  see  by  the  English  papers  that  Miss  Martineau  has 
published  a  letter  announcing  her  unshaken  faith  in  Mesmer- 
ism, and  her  wonderful  success  in  practising  it  on  others. 
This  subject  was,  we  believe,  introduced  into  this  country 
•by  Dr.  Charles  Poyen,  under  the  name  of  Animal  Magnetism. 
We  do  not  know  but  the  term  Mesmerism  was  used  synony- 
mously at  the  same  time,  but  a  few  years  since  Dr.  Buchanan 
lectured  to  the  Bostonians  upon  Neurology,  which,  to  our 
understanding,  was  the  same  thing  under  another  name. 
Mr.  Sunderland,  who  is  astonishing  the  citizens  of  Boston 
with  experiments  past  finding  out,  has  baptized  the  power 
he  uses,  as  Pathetism.  "  What 's  in  a  name?"  Let  us  have 
the  thing,  and  we  care  not  what  name  you  call  it.  We 
really  wish  our  scientific  men  would  take  hold  of  this  sub- 
ject, and  let  us  know  what  to  believe.  The  public  mind  has 
been  swaying  from  skepticism  to  credulity  long  enough.  If 
it  is  true,  it  is  certainly  a  truth  worth  knowing. 

WE  were  much  delighted  by  an  allusion  from  a  high  liter- 
ary source,  in  a  late  English  magazine,  to  our  country  woman, 
Mrs.  Child,  of  whom  we  are  justly  proud.  William  Howitt, 
the  author  of  the  article,  quotes  an  eloquent  passage  from 
her  writings,  and  styles  her  "a  noble  woman,  one  of  the 
finest  specimens  of  American  mind." 


EDITOR'S  TABLE.  127 

Mrs.  Cornwall  Baron  Wilson,  a  very  popular  English  poet- 
ess, died  on  the  7th  of  January.  The  same  papers  announce 
on  the  same  day,  the  death  of  the  Earl  of  Granville.  We 
presume  many  of  our  republican  readers  will  lament  the 
gifted  daughter  of  song,  to  whom  the  name  of  the  aristocratic 
lord  is  unknown. 


To  CORRESPONDENTS. — WTe  hope  to  hear  again  from  the 
author  of  the  "  Tale  of  the  Reformers,"  in  our  present  num- 
ber. The  liberty  we  have  taken  with  the  conclusion,  will, 
we  hope,  be  excused. 

The  lines  entitled  "  The  Dying  Girl"  are  not  quite  finished 
enough  for  our  pages.  With  a  little  more  attention  to  rhythm, 
the  writer  might  produce  something  very  respectable. 

We  were  a  little  surprised  at  the  signature  of  the  letter 
upon  "  The  Weather,  Times,  &c.,"  as  the  writer  has  shown 
a  capability  for  better  things  quite  lately.  There  are 
thoughts  enough,  but  they  need  finishing  and  arrangement. 
Some  of  the  quotations  display  good  taste.  We  like,  espe- 
cially, the  motto. 

"  Hew  from  Hope's  quarries  treasure  strong, 

Wherewith  to  build  the  Future  well, 
And  let  no  change,  or  blight,  or  wrong, 

Give  cause  to  say  the  structure  fell. 
Success  is  but  in  purpose  high, 

An  honest  heart  and  noble  aim ; 
And  each  may  carve  his  destiny 

For  glory  or  for  shame." 

We  would  commend  the  above  especially  to  our  melancholy 
friend  who  sends  us  the  lines  to  the  "Home  of  my  Child- 
hood." We  sympathize  in  her  afflictions,  and  wish  we  could 
relieve  them.  We  would  prescribe  the  reading  of  Schiller's 
inimitable  "  Hymn  to  Joy."  Here  is  one  verse  full  of  inspi- 
ration : 

"  Bear  this  life,  millions,  bravely  bear 

This  life  for  the  better  one  ; 
See  ye  the  stars  t     A  life  is  there 

Where  the  reward  is  won." 


MY  BELOVED,  WILT  THOU  OWN  ME? 


ENGLISH    MELODY 
ANDANTE. 


WORDS    BY    MRS.  DANA. 


My    Be  -  lov  -  ed,     wilt  thou  own  me,  When  my  heart  is      all     de  -  -  filed  T 


Though  thy        dy  -  -  ing      love    has        won    me,    Though   thy        dy  -  -  ing 


K — __ ». TK. ^ ^y jjf — — i — I — -9 — ;^ 

_^ ^9 

1 . —^ L 


S.   My  Beloved,  pass  before  me, 

Never  from  my  sight  remove. 
Many  waters,  flowing  o'er  me. 
Cannot  quench  my  burning  love. 

1.   My  Beloved,  now  endue  me 

With  thine  own  attractive  charms  ; 
May  thy  spirit  sweetly  woo  me ; 
told  me  in  thy  sheltering  arms. 


4.    My  Beloved,  safe'}'  hide  me 

In  the  drear  and  cloudy  day; 
Ere  the  windy  sionn  has  tried  me. 
Hide  my  trembling  .soul,  I  pray. 

f     My  Beloved,  kindly  lake  me 

To  thy  sympathizing  breast ; 

Never,  never  mere  forsake  mr  ; 

(iuide  me  to  the  land  of  rest. 


For  the  Magnolia. 

THE  STUDENT  OF  NATURE. 

(See  Frontispiece.) 

READ'ST  thou  thy  lesson  well  from  Nature's  book  1 
Hear'st  thou  the  voices  murmuring  around, 
From  the  up-springing  grass  and  hoary  trunks 
Of  the  proud  forest  monarchs?     Comes  it  not 
In  sighings  of  the  spirit-toned  wind, 
And  in  the  murmur'd  cadence  of  the  stream? 
What  speaks  that  simple  flower* to  thy  heart? 
List  to  the  teachings  of  its  voiceless  lips- 
Drink  in  its  silent,  breathing  harmony. 

Is  not  the  lilies'  cry  the  same,  as  when 
The  Heavenly  Teacher  walked  upon  the  earth, 
And  eloquently  read  their  silent  speech?— 
Lift  they  not  now,  as  then,  their  lowly  heads 
Before  the  face  of  kings,  mocking  their  pomp, 
And  hymning  the  same  song  of  praise  to  Him 
Who  gave  their  robes,  outshining  royalty? 

Open  thine  ear  and  heart,  and  there  shall  come 
Voices  of  tuneful  melody  to  thee, 
Forth  from  the  earth,  and  air,  and  the  deep  sea— 
Thou  'It  hear  their  sweet,  low-whisper'd  words  of  lota ; 
And  the  deep  beatings  of  great  nature's  pulse 
Shall  shake  thine  inmost  soul,  with  thoughts  sublime 
Of  life's  grea£  mystery.     That  shelt'ring  tree 
Will  whisper  tales  to  thee,  of  ages  gone 
And  ages  yet  to  come  ;  and  thou  shah  feel 
Thyself  a  speck — an  atom  by  its  side. 
Then  fold  that  simple  flower  to  thy  heart ; 
Its  petals,  crushed  and  withering,  shall  lift 
Thy  thoughts  and  aspirations  to  the  skies. 
*T  will  tell  thee  of  the  grave  where  it  was  hid, 
And  of  its  upward  struggles  for  the  day, 
And  for  its  robes  of  beauty  and  of  light. 
Yea,  it  shall  be  the  type  of  a  new  life, 
In  some  far  better  land,  beyond  the  tomb. 
In  perfume,  shall  its  brief  life  pass  away, 
And  its  exhaling  sigh  shall  bid  thee  trust 
In  Him  who  careth  for  the  short-lived  flowers. 
O  faithless  ones !  will  He  who  sends  on  them 
•His  sun  and  fruitful  showers,  not  care  for  thee? 

9 


For  the  Magnolia. 

S2UTAH  fO  TtfUdUTS  j^^^l 

THE    SHEPHERD. 

TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  FRENCH, 

BY     ANNIE     T.     WILBUR. 

FEAR  not,  reader,  we  have  no  intention  of  portraying 
scene   from   Honore  d'Urfe,  or  of  conducting  you   to  th 
banks  of  the  Lignon;  we  invoke  not  the  pastoral  shades  o 
Estelle  and  of  Nemarin.     The  Chevalier  de  Florian.  thong! 
more  modern,  is  as  much  out  of  date  as  the  author  of  Astrea 

In  the  prosaic  times  in  which  we  live,  one  may.  ever, 
without  quitting  Paris,  form  a  tolerably  correct  idea  of 
sheep  and  shepherds,  from  the  pictures  of  Brascassat  and  of 
Berge.  Sheep  are  not  all  snow-white,  nor  do  they  usually 
wear  pink  favors  about  their  necks;  some  of  them  are  very 
stupid  animals,  covered  with  greasy  wool,  impregnated 
with  a  perspiration  of  a  very  disagreeable  odor;  their  prin- 
cipal poetry  consists  in  mutton  chops.  Shepherds  are  clowns 
with  frizzly  hair,  pale  and  ragged,  sauntering  along  with  a 
bit  of  brown  bread  in  their  hand,  and  a  wolfish  looking  dog 
at  their  heels.  Shepherdesses  are  frightfully  ugly  young 
women, — and  the  variegated  petticoat,  corsets  laced  with 
ribbons,  and  complexions  in  which  the  rose  and  the  lily  are 
blended,  exist  only  in  the  imagination.  It  has  taken  man- 
kind more  than  six  thousand  years  to  make  these  discover- 
ies, and  to  withdraw  their  implicit  faith  in  poetic  fictions. 

Now,  since  we  have  warned  our  readers  against  any 
attempt  at  an  idyl  on  our  part,  we  will  commence  our  reci- 
tal; it  is  very  simple;  it  will  be  short.  We  hope  these 
good  qualities  will  be  duly  appreciated. 

About  the  middle  of  the  summer  of  18 — ,  a  little  shepherd, 
of  fifteen  or  sixteen  years  of  age,  but  so  diminutive  that  he 
did  not  appear  to  be  twelve,  was  driving  before  him,  with 
that. meditative  and  melancholy  air  peculiar  to  people  who 
pass  a  great  part  of  their  lives  in  solitude,  one  or  two  dozen 
sheep,  who  would  certainly  have  been  dispersed  but  for  the 
active  vigilance  of  a  great  black  dog  with  long  ears,  who 


THE   SHEPHERD.  131 

rallied  towards  the  principal  group  the  lingering  or  the 
straying,  by  a  gentle  bite,  seasonably  applied. 

Romances  had  not  turned  the  head  of  Petit-Pierre, — it 
is  thus  that  he  was  called,  and  not  Lycidas  or  Thyrsrs;  he 
knew  not  how  to  read.  Nevertheless,  he  was  a  dreamer ; 
he  spent  long  days  in  leaning  against  a  tree,  with  his  eyes 
wandering  about  the  horizon  in  a  kind  of  ecstatic  reverie. 
What  was  he  thinking  of?  He  did  not  know  himself.  He 
watched  the  rising  or  the  setting  of  the  sun,  the  glancing 
of  the  light  through  the  foliage,  the  varying  shades  in  the 
distance,  without  asking  himself  why.  He  even  looked  upon 
the  empire  exerted  over  him  by  the  waters,  the  woods  and  the 
sky,  as  a  mental  weakness,  almost  an  infirmity,  and  said  to 
himself:  "  There  is  nothing  very  curious  about  these;  trees 
and  ground  are  with  us  common.  Why  then  should  I  lin- 
ger a  whole  day  before  an  oak  or  a  hill,  forgetting  to  eat 
and  to  drink,  forgetting  everything?  But  for  Fidele,  I 
should  already  have  lost  more  than  one  sheep,  and  have 
been  turned  away  by  my  master.  Why  am  I  not  like 
others,  stout,  strong,  always  laughing  and  singing,  instead 
of  passing  my  life  in  watching  the  growth  of  the  grass  on 
which  my  sheep  browse?"  Petit-Pierre  thus  gently  expos- 
tulated with  himself  for  being  so  stupid  ;  was  he  in  the 
wrong?  5-tt** 

You  have,  doubtless,  already  imagined  that  Petit-Pierre 
was  in  love ;  he  may  be,  perhaps,  but  he  is  not  now.  Love 
in  the  country  is  not  so  precocious ;  and  our  shepherd  had, 
yet,  thought  little  about  the  fair  sex.  In  some  neighbor- 
hoods this  is  not  remarkable,  since  they  are  distinguished 
by  the  same  sunburnt  complexion,  broad  shoulders,  red 
hands  and  coarse  voice  of  the  rougher  part  of  creation ; 
Nature  has  formed  the  female,  civilization  the  woman. 

Having  reached  the  shady  side  of  a  declivity  covered 
with  fine  and  glossy  turf,  and  shaded  with  groups  of 
trees,  whose  knotty  trunks  bore  a  singular  and  picturesque 
appearance,  he  stopped,  seated  himself  on  a  rock,  and,  with 
his  chin  leaning  on  his  staff,  which  was  bent  like  those  of 
the  shepherds  of  Arcadia,  he  abandoned  himself  to  the  ha- 
bitual current  of  his  reveries.  The  dog,  sagaciously  judging 
the  sheep  would  not  wander  far  from  a  spot  where  the 


132  THE    SHEPHERD. 

grass  was  so  tender  and  so  abundant,  crouched  at  his  mas- 
ter's feet,  his  head  stretched  out  on  his  paws,  his  eyes  fixed 
on  those  of  Petit-Pierre,  with  that  impassioned  earnestness 
which  makes  a  dog  almost  a  human  being.  The  sheep 
were  grouped  here  and  there  in  picturesque  disorder.  A 
single  sunbeam  glided  among  the  leaves,  and  lit  up  with  its 
radiance  some  dew-drops, — diamonds  dropped  from  the 
casket  of  Aurora,  and  not  yet  gathered  by  the  sun.  It  was 
a  living  picture,  stamped  with  the  name  of  iis  author — God. 

Such  was  the  reflection  made  by  a  young  female  who 
entered,  at  this  moment,  the  opposite  extremity  of  the  valley: 

"What  a  beautiful  scene  for  a  drawing!"  said  she, 
taking  an  album  from  the  hand  of  the  maid  who  accom- 
panied her. 

She  seated  herself  on  a  mossy  stone,  at  the  risk  of  soiling 
her  white  dress,  about  which  she  seemed  to  trouble  herself 
very  little,  opened  the  book,  placed  it  upon  her  lap,  and 
commenced  sketching  with  a  light  and  bold  hand.  Her 
fine  and  clear  pencillings  were  gilded  by  the  transparent 
shadow  of  her  large  straw  hat,  as  in  that  delicate  painting 
by  Rubens,  which  may  be  seen  at  the  Museum;  her  tresses, 
of  a  rich  blonde,  hung  in  careless  braids  over  a  neck  of  daz- 
zling whiteness.  Her  beauty  was  charming  and  rare. 

Petij-Pierre,  absorbed  in  contemplaiion  of  the  chestnut 
tree  which  overshadowed  him.  did  not  at  first  perceive  the 
arrival  of  a  new  actor  in  the  tranquil  scene  of  the  valley. 
Fidele  had  lifted  his  nose,  but  seeing  no  cause  for  uneasiness, 
resumed  his  attitude  of  a  melancholy  sphynx.  The  aspect 
of  this  slender  and  graceful  form  troubled  the  young  shep- 
herd in  a  singular  manner;  he  felt  an  inexplicable  palpita- 
tion of  the  heart,  and,  as  if  to  overcome  the  emotion,  whis- 
tled to  his  dog  and  prepared  to  depart. 

But  this  was  by  no  means  agreeable  to  the  young  lady, 
who  was  just  sketching  the  shepherd  and  his  flock,  indis- 
pensable accessaries  to  the  landscape;  she  threw  aside  her 
album  and  crayons,  and,  with  two  or  three  bounds  like 
a  pursuing  fawn,  had  quickly  overtaken  Petit-Pierre,  whom 
she  brought  back  authoritatively  to  the  corner  of  the  rock 
on  which  he  was  before  seated. 

"Stay  there,"  said  she,  gaily,  "until  I  tell  you  to  go; 


THE   SHEPHERD.  133 

your  arm  a  little  farther  forward ;  your  head  more  to  the 
right." 

And  as  she  spoke,  with  her  white  and  soft  hand  she 
pushed  the  cheek  of  Petit-Pierre,  to  restore  it  to  its  former 
position. 

"  He  has  beautiful  eyes,  Lucy,  for  a  peasant,"  said  she, 
laughingly,  to  her  maid. 

Her  model  once  more  in  the  right  attitude,  the  young  girl 
returned  to  her  place,  and  resumed  her  drawing,  which  was 
soon  finished. 

"  You  may  rise  and  go,  if  you  please,  now;  but  it  is  right 
that  I  should  compensate  you  for  the  weariness  which  I 
have  caused  you,  in  keeping  you  there  like  a  wooden  image. 
Come  here." 

The  shepherd  slowly  advanced;  the  young  girl  slipped  a 
piece  of  gold  into  his  hand. 

"  It  is  to  buy  a  new  vest  when  you  go  to  the  dance." 

The  shepherd,  who  had  cast  a  stealthy  glance  at  the  half- 
open  album,  remained  like  one  stupified,  without  thinking 
of  shutting  his  hand,  or  glancing  at  the  beautiful  new  piece 
of  twenty  francs;  the  scales  seemed  to  have  fallen  from  his 
eyes;  a  sudden  revolution  had  taken  place  in  his  mind. 
He  said,  in  an  agitated  voice,  pointing  out  the  different  parts 
of  the  design : 

"  The  trees,  the  rock,  the  dog,  myself,  and  the  sheep  also, 
on  a  sheet  of  paper  ! " 

The  young  lady  was  much  amused  with  this  astonish- 
ment and  admiration,  and  showed  him  several  sketches  of 
lakes,  castles,  and  rocks ;  then,  as  night  was  approaching, 
she  and  her  maid  returned  home. 

Petit-Pierre  followed  her  with  his  eyes  a  long  time  after 
the  last  fold  of  her  robe  had  disappeared  behind  the  hill, 
and  Fidele  had  in  vain  touched  his  hand  with  his  moist 
nose  ;  he  could  not  succeed  in  drawing  his  master  from  his 
meditations.  The  humble  shepherd  had  begun  to' compre- 
hend confusedly  the  use  of  contemplating  the  trees,  the 
undulations  of  the  earth,  and  the  forms  of  the  clouds.  These 
inquietudes,  these  emotions  which  had  filled  his  mind  were 
not  then  wasted  ;  he  was  not  then  a  simpleton.  He  had 
•een,  pasted  over  mantel-pieces  in  farm-houses,  pictures, 


134  THE    SHEPHERD. 

such  as  the  portraits  of  Isaac  Laquedem,  of  Genevieve 
de  Brabant,  of  the  Mother  of  Sorrows,  with  the  seven 
swords  buried  in  her  breast;  but  these  coarse  engravings  on 
wood,  daubed  with  yellow,  red  and  blue,  worthy  of  the 
savages  of  New  Zealand,  or  of  the  Southern  Ocean,  had 
awakened  no  idea  of  art  in  his  mind.  The  designs  in  the 
album  of  the  young  lady,  with  their  neatness  of  pencilling 
and  their  correctness  of  outline,  were  something  entirely 
new  to  Petit-Pierre.  The  picture  in  the  parish  church  was 
so  black  and  smoked  that  nothing  conld  be  distinguished 
of  it,  and  besides,  he  had  scarcely  dared  to  cast  his  eyes  in 
that  direction,  from  the  porch  where  he  usually  knelt. 

Evening  came.  Petit-Pierre  shut  his  sheep  up  in  the 
park,  and  seated  himself  on  the  threshold  of  the  cabin 
which  served  him  for  a  summer  residence.  The  sky  was 
of  a  deep  blue.  The  seven  stars  of  the  Chariot  glittered  like 
golden  nails  in  the  depths  of  ether;  Cassiopeia,  Bootes, 
sparkled  brilliantly.  The  young  shepherd,  with  his  hand 
resting  on  his  dog,  who  was  lying  near  him,  felt  himself 
deeply  moved  by  the  sublime  spectacle  upon  which  he 
gazed  alone,  by  this  splendid  fete  which  the  heavens,  in 
careless  magnificence,  were  giving  to  the  slumbering  earth. 

He  thought  also  upon  the  young  female,  and  while  he 
thought  of  that  soft  and  white  hand  which  had  touched  his 
hale  and  ruddy  cheek,  his  heart  trembled  with  unwonted 
emotion.  He  attempted  to  sleep,  but  tossed  about  on  his 
straw,  unable  to  shut  his  eyelids;  finally,  slumber  came, 
though  not  until  after  much  solicitation.  Petit-Pierre  had  a 
dream. 

It  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  seated  on  the  corner  of  a 
rock,  with  a  beautiful  landscape  before  him.  The  sun  had 
scarcely  risen,  the  hawthorn  trembled  under  the  weight  of 
its  snowy  blossoms  ;  the  grass  of  the  field  was  covered  with 
pearly  dew-drops;  the  hill  appeared  clothed  with  a  robe  of 
azure,  glistening  like  silver.  At  the  expiration  of  a  few 
minutes,  Petit-Pierre  saw  the  beautiful  lady  of  the  valley 
coming  to  meet  him.  She  approached  him  smilingly,  and 
said:  "You  must  not  only  look,  but  copy."  Having  pro- 
nounced these  words,  she  placed  in  the  lap  of  the  astonished 
shepherd  a  portfolio,  a  beautiful  leaf  of  vellum,  and  a  crayon^ 


THE    SHEPHERD.  135 

and  placed  herself  opposite  to  him.  He  began  to  sketch  some 
lineaments,  but  his  hand  trembled  like  a  leaf,  and  the  out- 
lines became  confounded.  The  desire  of  success,  emotion 
and  shame  at  this  failure,  brought  the  drops  of  water  on  his 
temples.  He  would  have  given  ten  years  of  his  life  to  have 
seemed  less  awkward  in  the  eyes  of  a  being  so  beautiful; 
his  nerves  were  contracted,  and  the  outlines  which  he 
attempted  to  trace  became  irregular  and  ridiculous  zigzags; 
his  distress  was  such  that  he  almost  awoke;  but  the  lady, 
perceiving  his  trouble,  placed  in  his  hand  a  golden  pencil, 
whose  point  sparkled  like  fire.  Immediately  every  difficulty 
vanished;  figures  arranged  themselves,  and  were  grouped 
upon  the  paper;  the  trunks  of  the  trees  stood  forth  in  bold 
relief,  the  leaves  detached  themselves,  the  plants  sprung 
forth  with  their  foliage  and  all  their  graceful  detail.  The 
lad\r.  leaning  over  the' shoulder  of  Petit-Pierre,  watched  the 
progress  of  his  work  with  an  appearance  of  satisfaction, 
saying,  from  time  to  time:  ".Well,  very  well,  that  is  right ! 
go  on."  One  curl  of  her  hair,  which  floated  on  the  breeze, 
brushed  against  the  cheek  of  the  young  shepherd,  and  a 
thousand  sparks  flew  from  it.  as  from  an  electric  machine ; 
one  of  these  atoms  of  fire  fell  on  his  heart,  and  burned  in 
his  bosom,  luminous  as  a  carbuncle.  The  lady  perceived 
it.  and  said  to  him:  "  You  have  the  spark — adieu!" 

This  dream  produced  a  strange  effect  on  Petit-Pierre.  In 
fact,  his  heart,  as  well  as  his  head  was  inflamed  ;  dating 
from  this  day,  he  was  above  the  chaos  of  the  multitude ; 
between  his  birth  and  his  death  there  was  something  to  be 
accomplished. 

He  took  a  coal  from  the  extinguished  fire-  of  the  evening 
before,  and  immediately  commenced  his  picturesque  studies ; 
the  exterior  walls  of  his  cottage  served  him  for  paper  and 
canvass. 

With  what  should  he  commence?  With  the  portrait  of 
his  best,  or  rather,  of  his  only  friend,  of  Fidele ; — for  he  was 
an  orphan,  and  had  only  his  dog.  The  first  outlines  of  his 
sketch  bore  as  much  resemblance,  it  must  be  acknowledged, 
to  a  hippopotamus  as  to  a  dog;  but,  by  dint  of  effacing  and 
retouching, — for  Fidele  was  the  most  patient  model  in  the 
world, — he  succeeded  in  passing  from  a  hippopotamus  to  a 


£36  THE    SHEPHERD. 

crocodile,  then  to  a  sucking  pig,  and  finally  to  a  figure  which 
one  must  have  been  very  stupid  not  to  be  able  to  recognize 
as  belonging  to  the  canine  species. 

To  express  the  satisfaction  with  which  Petit-Pierre  experi- 
enced the  completion  of  his  design,  would  be  a  difficult  thing. 
Michael  Angelo,  when  he  gave  the  last  touch  to  the  Sixtine 
chapel,  and  stood  with  his  arms  crossed  upon  his  breast  to 
contemplate  his  immortal  work,  experienced  not  a  joy  more 
heartfelt  or  more  profound. 

"If  the  beautiful  lady  could  only  see  this  portrait  of 
Fidele  !"  said  the  little  artist  to  himself. 

In  justice  it  must  be  acknowledged  that  this  intoxication  did 
not  last  long.  He  soon  perceived  how  different  this  rough 
sketch  was  from  the  veritable  Fidele;  he  effaced  it,  and 
this  time  tried  to  draw  a  sheep;  he  succeeded  a  little  better, 
having  already  some  experience;  meanwhile  the  charcoal 
crumbled  in  his  fingers,  the  rough  board  resisted  his  efforts. 

"If  I  had  paper  and  a  crayon,  I  should  succeed  better; 
how  can  I  procure  them'?" 

Petit-Pierre  had  forgotten  that  he  was  a  capitalist;  he 
bethought  himself  of  this  fact;  and,  one  day,  confiding  his 
flock  to  a  comrade,  went  resolutely  to  the  city,  and  entering 
a  shop,  inquired  for  drawing  materials.  The  merchant, 
surprised,  gave  him  paper  and  pencils  of  several  sorts. 
Petit-Pierre,  delighted  at  having  accomplished  the  heroic 
and  difficult  task  of  purchasing  so  many  strange  things. 
returned  to  his  sheep,  and,  without  neglecting  them,  devoted 
to  drawing  all  the  time  which  ordinary  shepherds  spend  in 
playing  their  pipes,  carving  their  crooks,  and  making  snares 
for  birds  and  game. 

Without  calling  himself  to  an  account  for  the  motive 
which  guided  his  steps,  he  often  conducted  his  flock  to  the 
place  where  he  had  sat  for  the  young  lady,  but  several  days 
elapsed  without  his  seeing  her  again.  Was  Petit-Pierre  in 
love  with  her?  No,  not  in  the  sense  usually  attached  to 
the  word.  Such  an  attachment  was  impossible,  since  even 
to  the  humblest  and  most  timid  heart,  a  ray  of  hope  is  neces- 
sary. Simple  rustic  as  he  was,  Petit-Pierre  at  once  per- 
ceived that  there  was  a  great  abyss  between  himself,  a  poor 
shepherd  in  rags,  ignorant,  uncultivated,  and  a  young  lady, 


THE   SHEPHERD.  137 

beautiful  and  rich.  Unless  one  be  beside  himself,  does  he 
think  of  loving  a  queen?  Must  one  be  unhappy,  except  he 
be  a  poet,  if  he  cannot  embrace  the  stars'?  Petit-Pierre  did 
not  trouble  himself  about  all  this.  The  lady,  as  he  desig- 
nated her  in  talking  to  himself,  appeared  to  him  white  and 
radiant,  with  a  gold  pencil  in  her  hand;  and  he  adored  her 
with  that  tender  and  fervent  devotion  with  which  the  Cath- 
olics of  the  middle  ages  adored  the  Holy  Virgin  ;  although 
he  understood  it  not,  she  was  for  him  his  Beatrice,  his 
muse. 

One  day,  he  heard  upon  the  rocks  the  sound  of  the  gallop 
of  a  horse ;  Fidele  barked  loudly,  and  at  the  expiration  of 
some  minutes,  he  saw  the  lady  borne  away  by  the  fiery 
courser,  which  she  was  trying  in  vain  to  manage;  the  intrac- 
table animal,  urged  doubtless  by  fright,  obeyed  neither  bit, 
spur,  nor  bridle,  and,  by  a  violent  leap,  before  Petit-Pierre, 
who  sprang  from  rock  to  rock  from  the  top  of  the  hill,  had 
had  time  to  arrive,  disencumbered  himself  of  his  rider,  whom 
he  threw  violently  on  the  ground.  The  severity  of  the  blow 
threw  her  into  a  swoon,  and  Petit-Pierre,  paler  than  herself, 
went  to  dip/rom  the  hollow  of  a  furrow,  where  the  rain 
had  collected,  to  the  great  alarm  of  a  little  green  frog,  which 
had  established  there  its  bathing  saloon,  some  drops  of  clear 
water,  which  he  threw  upon  the  face  of  the  lady.  To  his 
great  terror,  he  perceived,  by  some  red  streams  mingling 
with  the  blue  veins  of  her  temples,  that  she  was  wounded. 
Petit-Pierre  drew  from  his  pocket  a  poor  checked  handker- 
chief, and  began  to  staunch  the  blood  which  was  making  its 
way  through  her  curls.  Once  she  came  to  herself,  opened 
her  eyes,  and  threw  on  Petit-Pierre  a  vague  look  of  gratitude, 
which  penetrated  his  very  soul. 

A  noise  of  steps  was  heard  ;  the  rest  of  the  cavalcade 
were  searching  for  the  lady  ;  they  raised  her,  placed  her  in 
a  carriage  and  departed.  The  shepherd  carefully  placed  in 
his  bosom  the  handkerchief  which  had  been  bathed  in  blood 
so  pure,  and  in  the  evening  went  to  the  city  to  inquire 
respecting  the  lady.  The  wound  was  not  dangerous.  This 
welcome  intelligence  calmed  Petit-Pierre  a  little,  to  whom 
all  seemed  lost  since  he  had  seen  the  young  girl  borne  away 
as  pale  and  inanimate  as  a  dead  person. 


133  THE    SHEPHERD. 

The  season  advanced  ;  the  inhabitants  of  the  chateau  re- 
turned to  Paris,  and  Petit- Pierre,  although  he  had  only  seen 
afar  off',  and  by  stealth,  the  straw  hat  and  the  white  robe, 
felt  himself  entirely  alone;  when  he  grew  too  sad,  he  took 
out  the  handkerchief  with  which  he  had  staunched  the 
wound  of  the  lady,  and  kissed  the  spot  of  blood  which 
covered  one  of  its  checks.  This  was  his  consolation.  He 
drew  industriously,  and  had  almost  exhausted  his  stock  of 
paper;  his  progress  had  been  rapid,  for  he  had  had  no  master, 
— no  system  interposing  itself  between  him  and  nature;  he 
copied  what  he  saw.  His  designs  were  still  very  rude  and 
barbarous,  though  full  of  naivete  and  «entiment;  he  labored 
ill  solitude,  under  the  eye  of  God,  without  counsel,  without 
instruction,  having  but  his  heart  and  his  sadness.  Some- 
times, at  night,  he  again  saw  the  beautiful  lady;  and  the 
golden  pencil  with  its  sparkling  point,  still  in  his  hands, 
traced  wonderful  designs;  but,  in  the  morning,  all  vanished, 
the  crayon  became  rebellious,  the  figures  disappeared,  though 
Petit-Pierre  used  almost  all  the  soft  part  of  his  bread  in 
effacing  his  failures. 

Nevertheless,  one  day  he  had  succeeded  in*  drawing  an 
old  moss-covered  cottage,  the  chimney  of  which  darted  its 
spiral  wreath  of  bluish  smoke  between  the  tops  of  walnut 
trees,  almost  despoiled  of  their  leaves;  a  woodcutter,  his 
task  accomplished,  was  sitting  at  his  threshold,  smoking 
his  pipe,  and  in  the  midst  of  the  room,  through  the  open 
door,  one  perceived,  indistinctly,  a  woman  rocking  .the 
cradle  with  her  foot,  while  busy  at  her  wheel.  This  was 
the  chef-d'osuvre  of  Petit-Pierre ;  he  was  almost  satisfied 
with  it. 

Suddenly  he  perceived  a  shadow  on  his  paper, — the  sha- 
dow of  a  tri-cornered  hat,  which  could  belong  only  to  the 
curate.  In  fact,  it  was  he  himself;  he  observed  in  silence 
the  work  of  Petit-Pierre,  who  blushed  to  the  very  tops  of 
his  ears  at  being  detected  in  such  flagrant  designs.  The 
venerable  ecclesiastic,  though  not  one  of  the  merry  priests 
so  much  lauded  by  Beranger,  was,  nevertheless,  a  good, 
wise,  and  learned  man.  In  his  youth  he  had  lived  in  cities; 
he  was  not  deficient,  in  taste,  and  possessed  some  skill  in 
the  fine  arts.  The  work  of  Petit-Pierre  appeared  to  him 


THE    SHEPHERD. 

what  it  was, — already  very  remarkable,  and  promising 
much  for  the  future.  The  good  priest  was  touched  to  the 
heart  by  this  solitary  vocation,  this  unknown  genius,  copy- 
ing, with  reverence,  devotion  and  conscience,  some  frag- 
ments from  the  infinite  work  of  the  Eternal  Creator. 

"My  little  friend,  though  modesty  is  a  praiseworthy  sen- 
timent, it  is  unnecessary  to  blush  as  you  do.  It  is,  perhaps, 
an  emotion  of  secret  pride.  When  one  has  done  a  thing  in 
the  sincerity  of  his  heart,  and  with  all  the  effort  of  which  he 
is  capable,  one  need  not  fear  to  show  it.  There  is  no  harm 
in  drawing,  especially  when  one  does  not  neglect  other 
duties.  The  time  thus  spent,  you  would  otherwise  have 
wasted,  and  idleness  is  bad  in  solitude.  There  is  in  this, 
my  dear  child,,  positive  merit:  these  trees  are  natural,  these 
shrubs  have  each  their  appropriate  leaves.  It  is  evident 
that  you  must  have  contemplated  for  a  long  time  the  works 
of  the  great  Master,  for  which  you  ought  to  be  penetrated 
with  lively  admiration,  since,  if  it  is  difficult  to  make  an 
imperfect  and  coarse  copy,  what  must  it  have  been  to  cre- 
ate all  from  nothing."  » 

It  was  thus  that  the  good  curate  encouraged  Petit-Pierre; 
he  had  the  highest  confidence  in  the  talent  which  had  already 
carried  him  so  far. 

"Work  on,  my  child,"  said  he  to  him;  "you  will  per- 
haps be  another  Giotto.  Giotto  was,  like  yourself,  a  poor 
goatherd,  and  finished  by  acquiring  such  talents,  that  one 
of  his  pictures,  representing  the  mother  of  our  Lord,  was 
carried  in  procession  in  the  streets  of  Florence,  by  the  enthu- 
siastic people." 

The  curate,  during  the  long  winter  evenings,  which  left 
Petit-Pierre  much  leisure,  since  his  §hVep  were  warmly  hud- 
dled together  in  the  stable,  taught  him  to  read  and  to  write, 
thus  giving  him  the  two  keys  to  knowledge.  Petit-Pierre 
made  rapid  progress,  for  it  was  as  much  his  heart  as  his 
head  which  desired  to  learn.  The  worthy  priest,  though 
he  reproached  himself  a  little  forgiving  his  pupil  instruction 
above  the  humble  rank  which  he  occupied,  was  pleased  at 
seeing  unfold,  one  after  another,  the  calices  of  his  soul.  For 
this  attentive  gardener,  this  interior  blossoming,  of  which  he 
alone  had  the  secret,  was  a  most  interesting  spectacle. 


uo 


THE    SHEPHERD. 


The  ice  melted,  the  snowdrops  and  cowslips  put  forth 
their  timid  heads,  and  Petit-Pierre  resinned  the  care  of  his 
flocks.  He  was  no  longer  the  diminutive  child  whom  we 
saw  at  the  commencement  of  our  story;  he  had  grown  in 
stature,  and  had  acquired  courage.  Nature  had  appealed 
to  her  resources  to  provide  for  the  expenses  of  new  faculties. 
Under  the  development  of  his  brain,  his  forehead  became 
enlarged.  His  eye,  formerly  downcast,  had  now  a  clear 
and  firm  glance.  As  in  every  head  where  thought  dwells, 
his  features  reflected  the  interior  fire.  Not  that  he  was  de- 
voured by  the  unhappy  ardors  of  precocious  ambition;  but 
the  wine  of  science,  though  infused  by  the  .good  priest  with 
prudent  discretion,  caused  in  his  soul  a  species  of  intoxica- 
tion which  might  have  degenerated  into  pride. 

[To  be  continued.] 


MORALS  IN  RHYME. 

BY    MRS.    OSGOOD. 

IF  sorrow  come,  resist  it  not, 
Nor  yet  bow  weakly  to  it ; 
Look  up  to  meet  the  heaven-sent  storm, 

But  see  the  rainbow  through  it ! 
***** 

And  seek  not  bliss  on  airy  heights, 
Whose  dizzy  power  doth  rally ! 

The  fragrant  little  hearts-ease  lights 
The  lowliest,  humblest  valley. 

The  gem  that  clasps  a  royal  robe, 
The  worldling's  eye  may  dazzle, 

But  love  will  light  his  glow-worm  lamp 
In  cot  as  well  as  castle. 

If  comes  a  blow  from  friend  or  foe, 
With  earnest  good  avenge  it ; 

"  The  sandal-tree,  with  fragrant  sigh, 
Perfumes  the  axe  that  rends  it." 

Be  like  the  sun,  whose  eye  of  joy 

Ne'er  on  a  shadow  lay,  love, 
Be  like  a  rill  that  singeth  still, 

Whate'er  be  in  its  way,  love  ! 
***** 
If  once  a  purpose  pure  and  high 

You  form,  for  naught  forego  it ! 
"  The  mulberry  leaf  to  silk  is  changed, 

By  patience,"  says  the  poet. 


For  the  Magnolia. 

:  •.",-,,•  ':-... 

A  TALE  OF  WRONG  AND  REVENGE. 

.!...%  •    »~~  j.  i' 

fta    • 

THE  shadows  of  the  palm  trees  fell  cool  upon  the  golden 
sands  along  the  beach  of  one  of  Africa's  rivers;  the  green 
turf  was  enameled  with  flowers,  and  the  birds  there  pour- 
ing forth  music,  wore  the  brilliant  colors  of  the  sunny 
tropics.  The  spicy  air  breathed  that  enervating  power 
which  relaxes  the  mind  and  inspires  a  dreamy,  thoughtless 
mood,  causing  care  to  flee  to  a  colder  region  for  a  resting- 
place.  It  was  such  a  spot  as  the  laughing  pleasures  seek 
out,  and  the  grove  echoed  with  the  mirth  of  their  votaries. 
A  circle  of  dark-browed  children  were  dancing  their  wild 
steps,  and  singing  with  a  glee  unwonted  even  among  that 
light-hearted  people.  The  king's  daughter  had  that  day 
joined  their  sports,  and  her  bright  glances  seemed  the  source 
from  which  they  caught  the  inspiration.  The  slight  girl 
appeared  of  princely  birth,  as  she  stood  in  the  midst,  her 
long  plaited  hair  and  chiseled  features  contrasting  with  the 
curled  locks  and  thicker  lips  of  her  companions.  She  was 
crowned  with  a  chaplet  of  flowers  for  the  nonce,  and  her 
subjects  willingly  bent  the  knee  before  the  mimic  queen. 
The  servants  of  Latha,  for  that  was  the  bright  one's  name, 
lay  under  the  shade  of  the  tall  palm;  they  had  been  sent  to 
watch  that  no  harm  befell  their  young  mistress,  and  they 
regarded  the  group  with  pleasure,  sometimes  chanting  the 
songs  of  their  nation,  while  flying  feet  kept  time  to  the  rude 
measure.  The  river,  delighting  to  prolong  the  sound,  bore 
it  down  on  the  dark  current,  and  the  white  man  caught  it 
as  he  stealthily  plied  his  Christian  oars  under  cover  of  the 
vines  that  skirted  its  banks.  Woe  for  the  dark  sons  of  Africa ! 
theirs  is  a  bitter  cup,  and  faithfully  is  it  drained.  So  the 
boat  was  moored  close  by  the  palm  grove,  and  the  white 
men  sprang  from  their  hiding  place,  seizing  alike  servant 
and  youth,  till  the  boat  was  filled;  then,  with  rapid  strokes 
of  the  long  oars,  they  shot  toward  the  open  sea.  The  deed 


142  A    TALE    OF    WRONG   AND    REVENGE. 

had  been  one  of  a  moment,  and  while  the  captives  still 
gazed  at  each  other  in  utter  dismay,  Christian  chains  were 
binding  them  fast  to  an  inexorable  slavery.  The  proud 
Latha  was  chained  with  one  of  her  servants;  she  exchanged 
her  bracelets  of  gold  for  a  coarser  material,  and  the  irons 
clanked  around  her  ankles.  Tears  were  on  her  cheeks,  but 
they  were  not  tears  of  weak  sorrow;  they  were  such  as 
degradation,  not  pain,  extort  from  a  noble  soul. 

Day  grew  dim  as  the  boat  neared  a  ship  from  whose 
mast-head  floated  the  banner  of  a  mighty  nation.  As 
her  sails  were  spread  to  the  breeze,  every  eye  sought  a 
farewell  glance  at  the  land  of  home.  The  hold  of  a  slave 
ship  furnished  a  poor  resting  place  for  limbs  accustomed 
to  repose  on  the  soft  skin  of  the  leopard,  and  Latha 
pressed  her  head  upon  her  small  hands  in  pain,  as  she 
sat  shuddering  in  the  dismal  place.  She  heard  the  waves 
dash  against  the  planks,  and  she  longed  to  feel  the  ship 
sinking  into  the  cool  depths,  where  the  water  spirits  wan- 
der through  their  halls  of  coral  and  amber,  binding  pearls 
in  the  locks  of  the  good,  who  find  their  graves  in  the 
ocean's  bed.  Hour  after  hour  wore  away, — it  was  horrid, 
— every  minute  was  an  age.  The  groans  of  some  poor 
victim  froze  the  blood  in  her  veins,  as  one  after  another 
slowly  died.  The  thick  air  was  loaded  with  pestilence ; 
hardly  could  one  draw  a  breath  in  the  loathsome  enclosure. 
The  rats  spared  the  living  only  because  the  dead  were 
easier  prey.  Latha  heard  them  at  their  banquet  from  night 
till  morn.  Wet,  weary  and  terrified,  she  begged  for  death, 
but  though  he  came  so  near,  it  was  not  to  call  her.  Fatal 
disease  crept  over  her  faithful  servant ;  he  knew  he  must 
die;  only  for  Latha's  sake  he  could  wish  to  live.  He  bade 
her  not  fear  him,  for  his  spirit  should  never  harm  her,  and 
lest  she  should  be  more  terrified,  he  hushed  his  last  groan, 
and  held  his  gasping  breath.  Poor  Latha  !  when  she  knew 
she  was  bound  to  one  from  whom  life  was  gone,  a  strange 
sensation  came  over  her — everything  faded  from  her  sight, 
and  a  happy  unconsciousness  possessed  her.  When  she 
revived,  she  was  lying  on  the  deck  of  the  vessel,  far  out  on 
the  blue  sea.  The  sky  above  was  mild,  and  the  water 
was  calm,  but  they  seemed  to  mock  her  grief.  One 


A    TALE    OF   WRONG   AND    REVEffGfc.  143 

little  bird,  that  had  followed  them  from  land,  fluttered  about 
the  rigging,  dispirited  and  alone,— with  that  she  claimed  a 
sympathy ;  daily,  as  she  came  upon  deck, — for  now  the  cap- 
tives were  suffered  to  breathe  the  pure  air, — she  watched  the 
bird,  and  called  it  to  her.  She  reserved  a  part  of  her  scanty 
allowance  of  food  for  the  lone  one,  and  found  some  solace  in 
her  little  friend.  One  day  they  were  not  allowed  the  deck, 
and  Latha  feared  as  she  heard  the  cry,  "Land  ahead!" 
She  dreaded  parting  with  her  bird, — so  much  does  the  heart 
attach  itself  to  some  living  thing.  After  the  ship  was 
moored,  the  anchor  dropped,  and  the  captives  called  up  to 
be  carried  to  the  slave-market,  Latha  almost  forgot  herself 
in  watching  for  her  favorite.  It  seemed  to  have  an  instinct 
that  they  were  about  to  part,  for,  chirping  mournfully,  it 
dropped  from  the  mast  and  lit  on  her  shoulder.  She  raised 
her  fettered  wristj  and  taking  it  in  her  hand,  concealed  it  in 
her  bosom.  A  kind  of  triumph  lighted  her  eye  as  she  was 
lowered  to  the  boat,  for  she  had  something  to  love.  The 
slaves  were  marched  toward  their  market,  and  exposed  for 
sale.  Latha  employed  herself  in  devising  means  to  conceal 
her  treasure,  and  so  successful  was  she,  that  her  purchaser 
did  not  discover  her  secret.  She  was  sent  to  her  master's 
plantation,  and  tasked  to  labor  in  the  field.  The  rays  of  the 
hot  sun,  and  the  drops  of  cold  rain,  fell  alike  upon  her  head. 
Her  hands  were  all  unused  to  labor,  and  scarcely  could  she 
grasp  the  rude  implements  of  agriculture.  Many  an  angry 
word  and  heavy  blow  had  she  received  for  her  remissness ; 
but  while  her  bird  lived,  she  bore  all  with  a  seeming  indif- 
ference, which  well  became  the  king's  daughter.  Like  her, 
it  pined  for  freedom ;  it  drooped,  and  one  day  she  sat  down 
under  the  com,  and  wept  for  her  dead  bird.  From  that 
day  her  eye  grew  sad,  and  a  mournful  expression  came 
over  her  beautiful  face, — for  notwithstanding  the  ebon  hue 
of  her  skin,  she  was  very  beautiful,  and  many  wondered  at 
the  plaited  hair  and  chisseled  lips  of  the  young  slave. 

Autumn  had  come,  and  her  master's  only  child  was  to 
return  home.  He  was  daily  expected,  and  Latha  heard  on 
every  hand  his  praises.  All  consented  that  he  was  once 
kind  to  the  slaves,  and  wondered  if,  in  his  long  absence,  he 
had  learned  tyranny  and  cruelty.  Some  spoke  of  his  pride; 


144  A    TALE    OF    WRONG   AND    KEVENGE. 

Latha's  royal  blood  pleaded  its  gracefulness.  Her  heart 
told  her  kindness  was  a  rare  virtue  among  a  Christian  peo- 
ple :  she  longed  that  one  sweet  word  should  fall  npou  her 
ear. 

Welheim  came  home,  and  went  out  to  see  his  father's 
plantation;  lie  greeted  the  old  servants  in  a  kind  voice,  and 
glanced  admiringly  at  the  lovely  Latha;  but  he  passed 
without  speaking,  and  she  sighed.  AVhy  did  he  not  speak 
to  her;  none  loved  her ;  and  the  tears  stood  in  her  soft, 
black  eye.  Her  task  was  unfinished  at  night,  and  the 
morning's  threat  of  punishment  was  about  to  be  executed, 
when  Welheim  chanced  to  pass  by.  His  heart  revolted  to 
see  the  slight  form  drawn  to  its  fullest  height,  the  arms 
crossed  on  her  breast,  and  the  proud  lip  curled  in  scorn  at 
the  thought  of  pain.  He  interfered,  and  bade  the  girl  be  dis- 
missed to  her  cabin.  Again  the  tears  hung  on  her  long 
lashes,  as  she  lifted  her  eye  to  thank  her  young  master. 
Welheim  watched  her.  as  with  a  light  step  she  crossed  the 
field,  and  the  next  day  he  stood  beside  her  asking  her  name. 
The  kind  tone  won  her  from  grief,  and  throwing  aside  the 
hoe,  her  silvery  voice  said,  u  Latha."  A  sunny  smile  it  was 
that  beamed  on  her  dark  face. 

Day  after  day  her  task  was  lightened,  till  she  was  free  to 
stay  in  her  little  hut  as  it  pleased  her.  The  cabin  itself 
assumed  a  look  of  luxury.  Latha's  self-taught  taste  fes- 
tooned the  flowers  over  the  walls,  and  trained  the  vines 
across  the  rude  window.  And  Latha  forgot  she  was  a 
slave,  while  she  wreathed  the  bright  blossoms  among  the 
braids  of  her  hair,  or  watched  his  coming  at  her  door.  He 
was  her  god.  She  knew  no  other,  and  her  worship  was 
wild  and  perfect.  While  she  sprang  with  child-like  joy  to 
meet  him,  or  twined  her  slender  fingers  among  his  curls, 
and  praised  their  beauty,  or  sang  to  him  the  melodies  of 
Africa,  or  fixed  her  bright  glance  on  his  face  as  he  played 
to  her  on  his  bugle,  the  young  man  felt  that  she  was  very 
dear  to  him.  He  lingered  by  her  side  till  he  forgot  she  was 
less  fair  than  himself,  and  would  almost  have  called  her  his 
bonny  bride,  but  pride  forbade.  So  he  taught  her  to  read, 
and  to  call  the  flowers  by  their  right  names,  and  to  tell  the 
stars,  as  they  look  down  so  kindly  from  their  celestial 


A    TALE    OF    WRONG   AND    REVENGE.  146 

abodes.  She  quickly  learned  the  lesson  from  a  teacher  so 
beloved,  and  thus  years  glided  by,  but  she  scarcely  knew 
the  flight  of  time.  He  was  her  dial,  and  it  had  been  mid- 
day ever  since  he  whispered  "  Latha"  softly  by  her  side. 
The  little  Ulia  shared  her  care  and  clapped  her  tiny  hands 
in  glee,  at  the  presence  of  the  planter's  son.  The  fair  child 
was  wondrously  like  him, — scarcely  could  Latha  distinguish 
between  them,  as  Ulia  sportively  mingled  their  raven  curls. 
Welheim  had  long  been  on  the  eve  of  departure  for  Europe. 
Unwillingness  to  part  from  Latha  had  delayed  him,  till  all 
excuses  had  long  been  exhausted, — he  could  offer  no  reason 
for  not  complying  with  his  father's  importunities,  and  at 
length  reluctantly  yielded.  The  moon  shone  soft,  as  he 
kissed  the  white  cheek  of  the  dreaming  Ulia.  Poor  Latha! 
she  felt  that  he  never  more  would  visit  her  little  cabin, — his 
arm  was  around  her  for  the  last  time,  and  bitter  were  the 
tears  she  shed  as  she  remembered  she  was  a  slave.  He  told 
her  he  would  come  again,  but  she.  mournfully  shook  her 
head,  knowing  he  would  come  no  more  for  her. 

Years  passed  on;  they  seemed  long  to  the  watcher;  the 
shadow  on  her  dial  had  declined  since  he  had  gone.  She 
was  treated  kindly,  for  so  he  had  bade  it  be.  Ulia  grew 
beautiful  arid  proud,  for  the  white  man's  soul  was  b«rs,  and 
she  had  companionship  with  none  but  the  king's  daughter. 
At  length  Welheim's  father  died,  and  after  a  few  months,  a 
rumor  of  the  young  master's  return  reached  the  ears  of 
Latha  and  Ulia.  The  slave  shook  like  an  aspen  leaf,  for 
she  knew  he  had  forgotten  the  light  love  of  youth;  but  Ulia 
was  certain  he  could  not  help  remembering  how  much  her 
curls  were  like  his  own.  He  had  come,  but  he  had  brought 
a  gentle  lady  with  him.  and  Latha  was  once  more  com- 
pelled to  labor  in  the  field.  It  appeared  to  her  the  inhuman 
driver  intended  to  repay  himself  for  her  lost  time, — many  a 
long  scar  marked  her  back,  and  the  stones  cut  her  tender 
feet.  She  hid  Ulia  from  the  Storm,  and  deigned  not  to  com- 
plain. One.  day,  the  planter's  wife  crossed  the  fields,  leaning 
on  her  husband's  arm.  She  was  very  fair,  and  Latha  trem- 
bled as  she  watched  their  steps.  He  saw  nothing  except  the 
angel  at  his  side,  and  Latha  felt  sick  as  she  pressed  her 
hand  slightly  upon  her  head.  Her  heart  was  broken,  but  no: 
10 


116  A    TALE    OF    V7BONG   AND   REVENGE. 

thought  of  revenge  crossed  her  pure  spirit;  she  worshipped 
still,  though  her  god  had  turned  away.  As  Ulia  grew 
toward  womanhood,  her  heart  swelled  at  every  stroke  of 
the  lash  ;  her  eye  flashed  when  she  saw  her  master's  chil- 
dren caressed ;  they  had  stolen  her  birthright,  and  she  felt 
the  captive's  lot  in  all  its  bitterness.  Thus  they  lived  on, — 
the  broken  heart,  the  haughty  young  spirit,  and  the  planter's 
happy  family.  Latha's  strength  wasted  away,  till  she 
could  hardly  perform  her  daily  work.  Lacerated  by  the 
driver's  whip,  and  weary  of  life,  she  sat  down  in  sullen 
despair.  She  was  ordered  to  the  place  of  punishment  for 
the  last  time,  and  with  a  martyr's  heart,  Ulia  stood  beside 
her  mother.  She  counted  each  stroke,  and  when  the  last 
was  told,  she  clasped  the  mangled  form  ;  but  the  soul  had 
fled,  and  the  trusting  heart  was  free  to  plunge  in  the  bound- 
less ocean  of  a  spirit's  love. 

That  night  Ulia  strewed  roses  over  the  grave  of  the  king's 
daughter,  and  pledged  all  her  wild  young  nature  to  win 
revenge.  She  loved  her  master,  for  she  could  recall  kind 
words  spoken  long  ago,  and  he  was  all  she  had  in  the  world 
toward  which  one  emotion  of  affection  existed.  But  for 
those  she  deemed  had  stolen  the  love  which  should  have 
been  heiz,  what  word  can  express  the  deep  detestation  she 
felt  1  Equally  fair,  and  more  beautiful  than  they,  why 
should  she  be  robbed  of  his  love?  This  was  the  one  idea 
of  her  mind,  and  she  grew  frenzied  in  feeding  upon  its  bit- 
terness. She  would  lay  down  her  life  for  one  fond  caress, 
lavished  so  plentifully  upon  them.  The  slave  knew  no 
law,  save  that  of  her  untamed  soul,  and  she  thought  that  if 
they  were  gone  perhaps  he  would  remember  her. 

She  was  returning  to  her  deserted  cabin  after  her  daily 
task  was  done,  when  she  met  her  master's  son.  He  raised 
his  little  whip  to  strike  the  slave,  but  something  in  her 
glance  arrested  his  hand,  and  Ulia  persuaded  him  to  go  with 
her  to  pick  berries  upon  the  hill.  True,  she  knew  if  he  eat 
them,  he  could  never  return  ;  but  why  should  he  retain  what 
rightfully  belonged  to  her?  The  sun  had  gone  down  and 
the  planter's  boy  felt  tired  and  sick  ;  he  bade  Ulia  take  him 
to  his  mother.  Marking  his  pale  face  and  unsteady  step,  she 
led  him  still  away  from  his  home,  till  he  could  go  no  farther; 


A   TALE   OF    WRONG   AND   KEVENGE.  147 

then  she  left  him  in  the  field  with  some  berries  beside  him, 
to  tell  half  the  story  of  his  death,  and  sit  upon  her  mother's 
grave  till  the  dawn  streaked  the  east.  Great  was  the  dis- 
tress when  the  planter's  boy  was  found  cold  and  stiff  among 
the  rocks ;  they  laid  him  in  a  shady  spot,  and  placed  a 
marble  monument  at  his  head.  Ulia  saw  well  the  distinc- 
tion between  the  coffinless  resting-place  of  the  slave,  and 
the  carved  marble  of  the  white  man's  tomb.  One  kind  word 
would  have  calmed  the  raging  storm  in  her  breast, — it  was 
not  said,  for  when  she  crossed  the  planter's  path  toward  the 
cypress  trees,  and  looked  so  imploringly  in  his  face,  rude  was 
the  tone  that  drove  her  away,  and  goaded  her  on  to  mad- 
ness. Why  need  they  hare  wondered  so  greatly,  when,  long 
months  after,  Ida  fell  into  the  stream,  along  whose  margin 
she  was  playing,  and  took  her  sunny  smile  from  the  plan- 
ter's now  childless  hearth !  Ah !  none  knew  the  thorn 
which  rankled  in  Ulia's  bosom;  none  imagined  such  "daring 
deed"  could  proceed  from  a  despised  slave.  So  mourning 
was  again  in  the  planter's  home,  and  it  was  doubly  sad. 
The  stricken  mother  was  lying  on  her  couch,  watching  the 
setting  sun  ;  dark  clouds  were  hovering  along  the  horizon, — 
all  emblematical  of  her  brief  existence,  whose  light  was 
going  out  in  sadness.  She  was  counting  the  last  hours,  and 
calmly,  as  that  great  luminary,  went  down  the  sun  of  her 
life.  The  white  mother  lay  beside  her  children,  under  the 
mournful  cypress. 

One  evening,  as  was  his  custom,  the  planter  went  toward 
his  loved  ones.  Ulia  resolved,  he  shall  own  me  now,  or  I 
will  die.  She  stood  before  him  and  said, 

"  They  slumber  softly,  grieve  not  for  those  who  sleep,  but 
for.the  tired  watcher,  my  father." 

"  Who  taught  the  child  of  a  slave  to  claim  kindred  with 
me  ?  I  tell  you  begone ! " 

The  high  brow  flushed  not,  nor  did  the  dark  eye  fall  be- 
fore the  angry  gaze  of  the  planter. 

"  Yet  I  am  your  daughter,  neither  am  I  less  fair  than  she 
who  is  hid  from  your  sight." 

An  expression  of  grief  softened  the  sternness  of  his  glance, 
and  the  passionate  girl  flung  herself  before  him;  her  soft 
curls,  like  his  own  in  all  save  their  floating  length,  feU 


148  A    TALE    OF    WRONG    AND    REVENGE. 

around  her  like  a  veil;  her  delicate  hands  were  clasped 
tightly  as  she  begged, — 

"O,  call  me  your  own  sweet  Ulia  but  once,  as  you  used 
to  do  when  I  was  a  little  child;  say  you  love  me,  but  once, 
only  once,  and  I  will  never  come  again." 

Perhaps  a  softer  cord  had  been  touched,  for  he  paused  a 
moment,  but  if  so,  pride  forbade  its  expression,  and  he 
sternly  answered, — 

"  Ulia,  if  that  be  your  name,  know  that  I  loathe  your 
presence,  and  if  you  dare  cross  my  way  again,  you  shall 
die;  or  rather,  if  you  go  not  this  moment,  you  shall  perish," 
he  added,  drawing  a  dagger  from  his  bosom. 

He  had  roused  his  own  proud  soul.  Ulia  sprang  to  her 
feet  with  flushed  cheek  and  flashing  eye;  she  tossed  back 
her  clustering  locks,  folded  her  beautiful  arms,  and  made 

reply, 

"  Death  would  be  sweet,  if  the  blow  came  from  my 
father's  hand.  What  cause  have  /to  live?  And  that  you 
may  not  fail  to  give  me  rest,  know,  haughty  man,  it  was 
the  despised  Ulia  who  drew  your  son  from  his  home,  and 
gave  him  the  fatal  fruit, — who  enticed  your  Ida  to  the  edge, 
and  thrust  her  forward  to  the  stream.  They  had  stolen  my 
birth-right,  and  I  resolved  they  should  die." 

A  convulsive  motion  passed  over  the  planter's  face ;  his 
hand  moved  swiftly,  and  a  crimson  flood  stained  the  dress 
of  Ulia.  She  did  not  shrink,  but  turned  her  eyes  upon  him, 
and  murmured, — 

"I  bless  you,  my  father;  I  shall  sleep  softly  beside  Latha, 
and  death  is  only  dear  to  the  tired  one." 

Did  the  spirit  of  his  early  years  come  back  over  his  soul, 
or  was  it  that  mind  must  ever  acknowledge  kindred  with 
its  own  resemblance,  and  as  he  saw  the  beautiful  slave 
dying  like  a  hero  beneath  the  stroke,  he  bowed  to  the 
romance  of  real  life?  His  rage  dissolved  beneath  that 
mournful  gaze,  and  kneeling  beside  her,  he  strove  to  staunch 
the  tide  with  which  that  young  life  was  fast  ebbing  away. 
With  a  last  effort,  Ulia  laid  her  hand  on  his,  and  whispered, 

"It  is  useless,  dearest  father;  Ulia  is  happy  now.  See, 
Latha  sits  by  the  dark  stream,  all  lovely.  Hark !  she  says, 


A   TALE    OF    WRONG    AND    REVENGE.  149 

'Tell  him  Latha  forgives,  and  watches  for  him  still  till 
he  comes.'  J: 

The  whisper  died  away  ;  the  long  lashes  drooped  ovei 
her  cheek  ;  the  crimson  flood  was  stayed,  and  she  breathed 
no  more.  The  planter  gently  brushed  the  hair  from  her 
cheek,  and  looked  long  at  the  face  on  whose  lineaments 
death  had  left  a  smile.  He  dashed  a  tear  from  his  eye. 
Perhaps  he  felt  his  punishment  just;  perhaps  he  wondered 
he  could  have  wronged  one  so  perfect  in  loveliness.  What- 
ever was  his  thought,  he  never  smiled  again  ;  and  often  he 
was  seen  to  bend  over  the  lowly  graves  of  Latha  and  Ulia, 
the  king's  daughters.  NELLEB. 

•  .  V 


•A  I  tai'tc  ted*.V 

For  the  Magnolia. 

THE  TWO  SONGSTERS. 

BY    ANNE    T.    WILBUR. 

There  is  in  Maryland,  the  land  of  generous  hospitality  and  warm  wel- 
come of  the  stranger,  a  very  sweet  home  called  Woodbury,  a  paradise  of 
happy  faces  and  loving  hearts.  la  the  tall  trees  which  surround  the  white 
dwelling,  the  birds  make  .their  nests  and  dwell  undisturbed.  One  into 
whose  ear  and  heart  these  melodies  sank  not  so  deeply  as  the  music  of 
well  remembered  voices,  in  the  serene  twilight  of  a  summer  eve,  thus 
commemorated  them. 

A  BIRD  in  the  locust  tree  all  day  lone 

_,          .  .        ,. 

(Chants  in  my  ear  the  self-same  song  ; 

Warbling,  and  praising  from  morn  till  night 

Some  being  unknown,  whom  he  calls  "  Bob  White." 

And  what  is  Bob  White,  little  bird,  to  thee, 
That  his  name  should  thus  echo  from  tree  to  tree  ? 
Was  he  a  hero  of  olden  time, 
Whose  name  was  forgotten  by  bards  sublime  ? 

Was  he  a  friar  of  orders  grey, 

Shut  up  in  a  cloister  night  and  day  1 

Or  a  huntsman  bold,  with  his  hounds  and  horn, 

Away  to  the  chase  at  the  peep  of  dawn  ? 

Was  he  a  minstrel  of  low  degree, 
Loving  a  lady  of  dignity  ? 
Or  a  noble  knight  with  an  armed  band, 
Bound  for  the  wars  of  the  Holy  Land  ? 


150  THE    TWO    SONGSTERS. 

Or  was  he  hung  for  some  dreadful  crime, 
And  his  name  handed  down  to  the  latest  time? 
Did  he  drink  too  much,  and  abuse  his  wife, 
And  lead  his  children  all  sorts  of  a  life  ? 

Was  he  a  pirate  who  roamed  o'er  the  sea, 
And  buried  his  booty  beneath  yon  tree  ? 
But  the  plaintive  note  of  thine  altered  song 
Tells  me  I  'm  doing  thy  friend  much  wrong. 

When  the  last  faint  ray  of  the  setting  sun 

Tells  that  the  day  is  nearly  done, 

When  the  breeze  dies  away,  and  the  leaves  are  still, 

You  may  hear  the  song  of  the  Whip-poor-WilL 

And  who  is  Will,  my  poor  little  bird? 
For  his  other  name  I  have  never  heard  ; 
And  why,  as  you  seem  to  pity  him  so, 
Can  you  wish  me  to  strike  so  cruel  a  blow  ? 

Say,  is  he  brother  to  that  Bob  White 
Who  sings  in  the  locust  from  morn  till  night? 
And  what  has  he  done,  that  thy  plaintive  hymn 
Ne'er  swells  on  the  ear  till  the  twilight  dim? 

Hast  thou  lost,  poor  Will,  thy  worldly  wealth, 
Of  fame,  or  fortune,  of  friends  or  health? 
Has  thy  mate  deserted  her  leafy  home, 
Afar  in  some  sunnier  clime  to  roam  ? 

Thou  art  poor  indeed,  if  the  voice  of  love 
Has  ceased  to  resound  in  the  silent  grove  ; 
And  lone  is  the  greenest  and  loveliest  spot 
Where  the  voice  of  affection  is  murmuring  not. 

Then  alter  thy  song  to  the  forest  trees, 
And  fling  its  notes  on  the  evening  breeze, 
Ever  warbling  thy  plaintive  tune, 
In  the  mellow  rays  of  the  silvery  moon. 

For  what  to  the  lonely  are  sunshine  and  flowers, 
Or  the  song  of  the  birds  in  the  summer  hours? 
The  glory  and  beauty  of  nature  and  art, 
Like  the  wealth  of  a  loving  and  trusting  heart? 


THE    MONEY   DIGGERS. 


151 


THE  MONEY  DIGGERS;  OR,  THE  FATAL  PASSION. 

[Concluded.] 

As  soon  as  night  approached,  S  -  jumped  into  his  skiff 
and  pulled  across  to  the  settlement.  Knocking  at  the  door 
of  a  man  by  the  name  of  D  -  ,  whom  S  -  had  resolved 
to  make  a  confidant  of,  and  telling  him  he  wanted  to  spend 
a  few  moments  with  him  alone,  they  retired  to  the  edge  of  the 
forest,  and  seating  themselves,  S  -  proceeded  to  give  to  his 
companion  a  detail  of  the  whole  matter,  not  excepting  his 
suspicions  that  the  pirates  intended  to  decamp  soon  and  take 
away  the  treasure. 

D  -  was  horror-struck  at  the  thought  of  having  lived 
so  long  in  immediate  proximity  with  pirates;  but  he  agreed 
with  S  -  that  they  had  as  good  claim  to  the  buried  gold 
as  the  pirates  themselves.  And  they  determined  the  next 
morning  to  make  an  examination  of  the  premises,  and  at 
night  remove  the  treasure.  As  they  rose  to  return,  the  sharp 
report  of  a  musket,  in  the  direction  of  the  dwelling  of  the 
Frenchman,  broke  upon  them.  And  as  they  reached  the 
door  of  L.'s  dwelling,  the  young  Frenchman  came  rushing 
up  in  the  greatest  agitation  and  alarm,  crying  out,  in  imper- 
fect English,  "Indians,  Indians  !"  and  laying  hold  of  them, 
he  pointed  to  his  dwelling. 

The  neighbors  were  immediately  aroused,  and  with  lan- 
terns and  arms  started  for  the  Frenchman's  cabin. 

As  they  approached,  one  picked  up  a  bunch  of  furs,  and 
soon  the  glittering  blade  of  a  scalping  knife  was  observed  by 
another.  "The  red  skins  have  left  their  marks."  said  one 
to  another.  On  going  into  the  hut,  a  horrid  spectacle  met 
the  eyes-  of  the  party.  On  a  bed  of  skins  lay  extended  the 
body  of  the  old  pirate  captain,  his  brains  literally  blown  out. 
while  a  tomahawk  was  buried  to  the  eye  in  his  broad  chest. 
Everything  in  the  house  was  in  the  utmost  confusion  ; 
clothing  and  arms  and  skins  strewn  about  in  perfect  dis- 
order, made  it  clear  to  the  minds  of  the  party  that  it  was  the 
work  of  a  band  of  the  Tarrentines. 

After  leaving  a  party  to  watch  with  the  young  man,  who 
appeared  greatly  alarmed.  S-  -  and  D  --  started  to  re- 
turn. 


152  TI:K  MONEY  DIGGERS. 

• 

"  Well,"  said  D ,  "the  old  pirate  has  met  the  end  to 

which  he  has  sent  so  many ;  but  is  it  not  strange  that,  abroad 
as  we  were,  and  so  near  the  cabin,  we  neither  saw  nor 
heard  the  Indians?" 

"Not  at  all,"  answered  S— — ,  "for  the  best  possible  rea- 
son—none have  been  here." 

"How,  none']'7 

"  Not  an  Indian  ;  did  you  ever  hear  of  an  Indian  commit- 
ting murder  without  plunder  1  Did  you  not  see  that  all  the 
property  was  safe?  And  then,  how  did  the  young  man 
escape  safely  giving  no  alarm,  until  after  the  deed?  And 
then,  these  men  and  the  Indians  have  been  on  the  best  of 
terms,  as  the  French  and  Indians  always  are.  No,  no; 
depend  upon  it,  those  skins  and  that  knife  came  from  the 
cabin;  that  young  pirate's  hand  dealt  that  blow." 

"  It  surely  looks  like  it,"  said  D . 

"And  now,"  resumed  S ,  "he  intends  to  possess  him- 
self of  that  treasure  and  fly.  In  his  own  country  it  will 
make  a  noble  of  him." 

Little  could  U sleep  that  night.  What  with  the 

excitement  of  the  murder,  the  money  and  the  suspicion 
which,  in  his  mind,  fastened  upon  the  young  man,  sleep 
was  banished  from  his  eyes. 

With  the  greatest  impatience,  he  awaited  the  appearance 
of  the  first  pale  thread  of  light  in  the  east,  and  then  hastened 

to  join  S .  Together  they  passed  up  the  bank  of  the; 

river  to  the  point  from  which  S had  witnessed  the  ly^r 

interview  between  the  two  pirates;  but  on  looking  carefully 
around,  they  discovered  two  or  three  places  where  the  soil 
seemed  to  have  been  broken ;  but  the  rock  tossed  by  the 

young  man  was  a  guide  to  S ,  and  they  soon  fixed  upon 

the  spot  where  the  treasure  was  supposed  to  be  buried. 

And  now  how  they  longed  to  open  that  spot,  but  it  would 
have  been  a  hazardous  operation  for  the  day  time,  and  espe- 
cially in  the  excitement  of  the  village  from  the  murder  just 
committed.  They  might  be  missed,  and  this  would  lead  to 
suspicions.  It  was  finally  concluded  to  postpone  the  search 
until  that  night  at  12  o'clock,  when,  after  the  burial  of  the 
pirate,  it  might  be  safely  done. 

The  hours  passed  slowly  to  the  money  diggers.     The 


THE   MONE?    DIGGERS.  153 

funeral  of  the  pirate  captain  occupied  a  part  of  the  day.  It  was 
the  first  death  in  the  infant  settlement ;  a  death  of  violence, 
and  the  victim  a  stranger.  And  sadly  and  sorrowfully  the 
little  group  followed  the  remains  of  the  old  man  to  the  grave, 
and  deeply  did  all  but  two  feel  for  the  apparently  grief-stricken 
nephew,  who  seemed  smitten  down  with  his  loss.  It  was 
the  determination  of  S ,  as  soon  as  he  had  taken  posses- 
sion of  the  treasure,  to  denounce  the  young  man  as  the  mur- 
derer, knowing  that  the  circumstances  would  be  sufficiently 
strong  to  convict  him.  And,  indeed,  such  was  the  fact; 
when  the  excitement  was  allayed,  and  the  settlers  came  to 
look  at  the  circumstances,  all  were  convinced  of  his  guilt. 

But  the  day  passed  away  at  last,  and  night,  dark,  quiet, 

solemn,  settled  upon  the  earth.     D and  S sat  in  the 

cabin  of  the  latter,  maturing  plans  and  feeding  hope  with 

bright  promises.     S was  most  excited,  for  D had  not 

yet  entered  so  fully  into  the  subject.  D would  occa- 
sionally express  doubt,  but  S was  sanguine;  he  saw  no 

room  for  doubt.  As  sure  as  the  morning  sun  should  rise,  so 
surely  would  his  hopes  be  realized.  He  talked  of  his  plans; 
he  intended  to  return  to  his  old  home — to  seek  civilized  soci- 
ety again.  He  was  intoxicated  with  excitement. 

Twelve  o'clock  came  at  last,  lagging  as  though  it  grudged 
them  the  pleasure  it  was  to  bestow,  or — would  spare  them 
the  disappointment  they  were  to  suffer. 

Lighting  a  dark  lantern,  and  furnishing  themselves  with 
spade  and  pick-axe,  they  silently  left  the  cabin,  and  stepping 
into  a  canoe  ready  at  the  beach,  they  quietly  paddled  down 
the  bank  of  the  stream,  and  then  turning  short  around  the 
point,  pulled  up  the  northern  bank  of  the  river.  As  they 
struck  into  the  river,  D said, 

"  Hark !  I  thought  I  heard  the  sound  of  an  oar  in  the 
water." 

-  leaned  over  the  gunnel,  and  laying  his  ear  as  near 
the  water  as  possible,  listened   a  moment. 

"  I  seem  to  hear,"  said  he,  "the  murmur  of  voices,  and 
the  dropping  of  oars  or  paddles  into  the  water.  It  is  a  party 
of  Indians  who  have  been  down  to  the  salt  water  and  are 
returning.  I  often  hear  them  passing  in  the  night." 

A  few  moments  and  they  landed,  and  passed  up  the  bank 


EDITOR'S  TABLE. 

of  the  river  to  the  spot  they  had  visited  the  day  before.  The 
night  was  very  dark,  but  with  the  aid  of  the  lantern,  they 
soon  reached  the  location,  and,  as  the  light  streamed  upon 
the  spot,  what  was  their  astonishment  to  see  before  them  a 
mound  of  fresh  earth ;  and  running  forward,  they  saw  the 
very  spot  marked  had  been  opened,  and  in  the  bottom  of  the 
excavation  was  the  impression  of  an  iron  chest,  the  rust  still 
adhering  to  the  earth;  and  plainly  to  be  seen  was  its  track 
left  upon  the  earth  and  stones  as  it  had  been  dragged  to  the 
water  and  carried  away. 

Words  cannot  depict  the  shock  which  poor  S —  —  suffered 
at  that  moment;  he  sank  down  upon  the  ground  in  a  swoon, 

from  the  reaction  of  his  excited  feelings.  D was  more 

calm.  He  had  not  had  much  faith  in  the  project  until  now  ; 
but  the  story  of  the  pirate  soldier  was  true.  He  called  to 
mind  the  sounds  they  had  heard  when  coming  to  the  place, 
the  murder  of  the  old  man;  and  he  came  to  the  conclusion 
that  the  young  man  had  confederates  who  had  assisted  in 
the  murder  and  in  bearing  away  the  secreted  gold.  No 
doubt  it  was  their  boat  he  had  heard  retreating  down  the 
river. 

Poor  S suffered  so  intensely,  that  he  was  thrown  into 

a  fever,  and  when  he  recovered  he  was  insane — a  victim  to 
the  fatal  passion. 


EDITOR'S   TABLE. 

FONTENELLE  said  that  "  women  have  a  fibre  more  in  the 
heart,  and  a  cell  less  in  the  brain  than  men."  The  witty  editor 
of  the  Chronotype  summarily  remarks  upon  this,  that  "  some 
of  them  have,  and  some  haven't."  For  our  own  part,  we 
readily  allow  the  lords  of  creation  their  extra  cell,  and  claim 
our  additional  fibre  in  the  heart.  Our  assertion  may  prove 
the  truth  of  the  quotation,  at  least,  to  that  class  of  whom 
Dickens'  " strong-minded  woman"  is  the  representative,  but 
"What  is  writ  is  writ."  We  have  very  comfortable  opin<- 
ions  of  the  capabilities  of  our  sex,  hut  we  think  our  cause  is 
yery  little  strengthened  by  lengthy  arguments  or  high- 


EDITOR'S  TABLE.  155 

.sounding  pretensions.     Time  will  render  us  a  righteous  ver- 
dict.    It  is  for  us  to 

"  Act,  act  in  the  glorious  present, 
Heart  within  and  God  o'erhead." 

It  is  very  evident  that  the  stronger  sex  believe  us  possessed 
of  almost  unlimited  capacity.  Do  they  not  show  this  in 
their  instructions  to  us?  Since  the  Mahomedan  doctrine, 
that  women  have  no  souls,  first  began  to  be  questioned, 
have  we  not  been  taught  that  it  was  our  duty  to  be  perfect; 
in  fine,  that  we  have  great  reason  to  be  ashamed  of  our- 
selves if  we  are  not  as  faultless  as  the  angels  1  Have  we 
not  in  many  cases,  been  called  angels,  in  order  to  excite  an 
ambition  which  has  only  to  exert  itself  to  equal  these  pure 
beings?  Would  these  "knowing  ones"  exhort  us  to  strive 
for  what  is  unattainable — to  be,  what  they  believe  it  is  im- 
possible for  us  to  be  ?  The  idea  is  absurd. 

Scores  of  books  are  published  every  year,  instructing  us 
in  our  duties.  Magazines  discuss  our  rights,  and  the  news- 
papers follow  us  up,  with  all  sorts  of  hints  about  what  is  ex- 
pected of  us  in  every  possible  situation  of  life.  We  heard  a 
sensible  young  lady  remark,  a  short  time  since,  that  it  was 
high  time  for  some  one  to  look  out  for  the  rights  of  the  gen- 
tlemen. She  feared  they  would  be  entirely  lost  sight  of  in 
the  crusade  for  woman's  improvement. 

Grant  Thorburn,  whom  we  presume  most  of  our  readers 
are  acquainted  with,  through  Gait's  "  Lawrie  Todd,"  seems 
to  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that  something  may  yet  be 
done  for  the  other  sex.  He  has  lately  written  an  article 
entitled  "  Hints  to  Young  Men  who  expect  to  become  Mer- 
chant Princes  for  the  next  generation,"  which  is  full  of  the 
strong  Scotch  common  sense,  for  which  he  is  so  remarkable. 
We  wish  we  could  give  the  entire  piece,  but  it  exceeds  our 
limits.  The  object  of  the  writer  is  to  instruct  his  own  sex 
in  what  might  properly  be  termed  domestic  tactics.  And 
we  feel  ourselves  bound  to  present  some  of  the  points  of 
attack,  in  order  that  ours  may  not  be  taken  unprepared, 
though  we  by  no  means  recommend  "  a  vigorous  resistance." 
We  are  sure  the  following  remarks  upon  courtship,  &c.  will 
make  a  favorable  impression  upon  the  ladies,  and  perhaps, 


156  EDITOR'S  TABLE. 

find  their  way  to  the  ear  of  some  one  to  whom  it  was  ad- 
dressed : — 

"  There  is  nothing  to  be  gained  by  dangling  after  a  sensible  woman  for  a 
twelvemonth,  talking  unmeaning  stuff;  words  without  knowledge.  You 
mistake  the  sex  if  you  expect  to  gain  their  favor  by  this  means.  While 
you  think  they  are  laughing  at  your  small  wit.  they  arc  only  smiling  at 
your  great,  folly.  Their  modesty  makes  them  retiring  ;  btit  let  me  tell 
you,  there  is  more  wit  in  the  little  finger  of  most  of  the  women  with 
whom  I  have  come  in  contact,  than  is  to  be  found  in  the  empty  skulls  of  a 
whole  generation  of  those  black-whiskered  would-be  lords  of  creation.  / 
speak  advisedly,  for  in  the  line  of  my  profession,  as  High  Priest  in  the  tem- 
ple of  Flora  for  nearly  half  a  century,  I  have  h:,d  abundant  opportunities 
to  note  the  disposition  of  the  various  worshippers,  who  are  chiefly  among 
the  weaker  sex.  If  you  wish  to  gain  the  affections  of  a  sensible  woman, 
after  a  few  weeks'  personal  conversation,  tell  her  your  intentions  in  plain 
Scotch  at  once — speak  like  a  man.  not  like  a  wimpering  school-boy.  If 
you  are  pushed  out  from  the  door,  just  creep  in  by  the  window  ;  thus, 
finding  you  are  in  earnest,  she  will  be  yours  before  another  month  goes 
round. 

"  Having  now  got  married,  devote  your  leisure  hours  to  nourish  and  cher- 
ish your  wife — leave  politics  to  the  pure  democracy.  If  your  circumstan- 
ces are  easy  and  you  are  fond  of  out-door  amusements,  let  your  wife  be 
your  constant  companion.  It 's  unkind,  unmanly,  and  impolite  to  leave  her 
mopinsr  alone,  while  thou  art  abroad  finding  thy  own  pleasure. 

"  If  it  is  thy  lot  to  earn  thy  bread  by  the  sweat  of  thy  brow,  when  the 
labor  of  the  day  is  past,  demote  thy  evenings  to  the  company  of  thy  wife. 
If  there  are  no  extra  cares  to  prevent  it,  take  a  walk  in  the  fields  or  call  on 
a  friend.  If  thy  wife  is  engaged  in  repairing  thy  garments  or  smoothing 
thy  linen,  then  sit  by  the  table,  (one  candle  will  serve  both,)  and  read  to 
her  the  news  of  the  day  or  from  some  useful  and  entertaining  book.  If 
there  are  children  to  be  cared  for,  stay  at  home  and  do  your  part.  If  one 
is  fretful  take  it  on  your  knee  and  sing  to  it  '  Auld  Lang  Syne.'  If  the 
other  stirs  in  the  cradle,  put  your  foot  on  the  rocker.  This  will  lighten  the 
cares  of  thy  partner  and  bring  a  smile  on  the  face  thou  art  wont  to  admire. 
Verily,  in  this  house  there  is  peace.  I  speak  from  experience." 

We  commend  the  following  remarks  upon  home  extrav- 
agances to  all  women  of  sense;  and  we  sincerely  believe 
that  no  one  possessing  a  spark  of  that  commodity,  could  re- 
main "  fire-proof"  to  the  management  here  recommended. 
We  verily  pity  the  wife  who  would  not  "  surrender  at  dis- 
cretion" under  such  an  appeal. 

Caudle  says,  in  his  breakfast  talk, 

"  There  you  are  !  Crying  again  !  That 's  the  mean  advantage  you 
women  always  try  to  take  of  your  husbands." 


EDITOR'S  TABLE.  157 

Now,  just  listen  to  "the  New  York  Seedsman"  on  the 
same  subject,  and  say  if  he  don't  deserve  to  be  styled  the 
New  York  sage. 

"  Perhaps  your  wife  meets  a  tea-\v  ater-company  at  the  house  of  Mr.  Van 
Pelt.  Mr.  Van  Pelt  is  an  old-established,  thriving  trader — on  the  table  is 
a  silver  tea-pot,  a  silver  milk-pot,  sugar-bowl,  and  tongs.  At  9  P.  M.  you 
go  to  see  your  wife  home ;  she  looks  sad,  and  on  the  way  never  opens  her 
mouth.  Having  got  home  ;  she  takes  her  stand  at  the  looking-glass  while 
untying  her  hat ;  her  little  pretty  face  is  now  as  long  as  a  bean-pole — you 
*re  distressed  on  her  account — in  the  most  soothing  manner  possible,  you 
ask,  '  What's  the  matter  with  you,  dear  Maria,  to-night?'  She  looks 
as  if  she  had  lost  all  her  friends ;  for  one  minute  she  won't  speak,  and. 
perhaps,  she  begins  to  cry.  Now  be  easy,  cool,  and  acquit  thyself  like  a 
man  ;  these  tears  are  the  grape-shot  which  the  ladies  always  carry  in  the 
fountain  of  their  sparkling  eyes ;  with  this  shot  they  mow  down  the  men 
as  fast  as  did  the  Invincibles  of  Bonaparte  on  the  plains  of  Wagram.  We 
have  whole-hog,  half-alligator,  and  half-horse  men  in  Tennessee  and  Ken- 
tucky ;  they  will  stand  before  Colt's  six-barrel  revolving  pistols,  but  there 
are  not  ten  men  between  Plymouth  Rock  and  the  shores  of  the  Pacific, 
who  can  stand  before  the  shot  from  a  woman's  eyes.  As  I  advised  above, 
keep  cool  for  a  space,  and  be  silent ;  perhaps  on  the  next  five  minutes 
may  hang  the  happiness  or  misery  of  your  future  lives  ;  the  scales  are  in 
thy  hand.  Place  your  chair  by  the  table  near  which  she  sits,  cover  your 
face  with  your  hands,  whimper  and  cry  a  little,  just  by  way  of  galvanic 
sympathy ;  with  thy  first  sigh  her  tender  heart  will  relent,  and  instantly 
become  thy  comforter.  Now  you  will  hear  that  all  this  Muckle  adae  aVut 
na'thing  was  only  a  storm  in  a  tea-pot — this  hateful  tea-pot,  and  sngar- 
bowl,  and  milk-pot.  '  I  am  sure,  Mr.  Jenkins,  you  can  afford  me  a  silver 
tea-pot  as  well  as  Mr.  Pelt  does  to  his  wife,'  &c. — Now  another  crystal 
tear  is  rolling  across  her  beautiful  eyes— don't  look  at  them— yovi  will  be 
shot ;  for  her  sake,  for  your  own  sake,  and  for  the  sake  of  the  next  gene- 
ration, '  don't  give  up  the  ship.'  Draw  closer  your  chair,  commence  a 
mild  and  soothing  speech,  sprinkled  now  and  then  with  some  of  the  ele- 
gant extracts,  metaphors,  and  love-epithets  with  which  you  were  wont  to 
address  your  Maria  three  weeks  before  marriage.  Begin  the  exordium  as 
follows  :  '  You  know,  my  dear,  that  Mr.  Van  Pelt  has  been  long  estab- 
lished in  a  profitable  and  certain  business — has  made  a  fortune — and  is  just 
on  the  point  of  retiring  ;  whereas  we  are  only  beginning  with  a  small  capi- 
tal ;  I  cannot  conduct  my  business  without  borrowing  from  the  bank 
(bank  discount.)  When  I  borrow  $  100  from  the  bank,  I  pay  seven  dol- 
lars every  year  for  interest ;  were  we  to  get  this  silver  tea-pot,  milk-pot, 
sugar-bowl  and  tongs,  they  would  cost  nearly,  or  perhaps  over,  three  hun- 
dred dollars.  Now  the  interest  on  this  sum  is  twenty-one  dollars  per 
annum  ;  this  would  buy  for  you  a  good  summer  and  a  good  winter  hat ;  a 
thousand  times  rather  would  I  look  on  thy  pretty  face,  under  a  handsome 
bonnet,  than  to  see  thee  pouring  tea  from  a  silver  pot,  to  wet  the  mouth 


158  EDITOR'S  TABLE. 

of  some  envious  neighbor,  who  might  go  home  and  laugh  at  what  they 
would  call  our  extravagance.'  I  know  your  wife  is  a  woman  of  sense  • 
she  relents  at  once.  In  this  way  a  woman  may  he  led — she  was  not  made 
to  be  driven.  No  young  merchant  should  purchase  plate,  till  once  he  can 
carry  on  his  business  without  bank  discounts." 

Now  that  we  have  fairly  introduced  the  subject,  we  may 
as  well  "  say  our  say."  There  are  some  hints  in  the  fol- 
lowing scrap  from  the  Saturday  Evening  Post,  which  may 
not  be  unimportant. 

"  All  men  depend  for  happiness  quite  as  much  on  little  things  as  on 
greater  ones  ;  and  few  but  are  even  more  tenacious  of  trifles  than  of  matters 
of  larger  moment.  It  annoys  many  a  man  more  to  sit  down  to  a  bad  dinner, 
than  it  would  to  discover  that  his  wife  was  extravagant ;  and  we  have 
seen  some  little  oversight  in  etiquette  make  a  woman  angry  quicker  than 
it  would  have  done  to  have  told  her  a  falsehood.  To  see  a  wife  badly 
dressed  when  you  would  have  wished  her  to  look  well — to  have  her  sick 
and  complaining  when  you  desired  to  go  on  a  party  of  pleasure — or  to  find 
her  away  on  a  visit,  leaving  word  for  you  to  come  for  her  when  you  go 
home  at  evening,  tired  and  worried,  try  a  man's  patience  exceedingly  ;  and 
many  a  wife  finds  she  has  unconsciously  put  her  husband  into  an  ill-humor 
by  some  such  trifle,  when  he  would  have  borne  heroically  an  assault  on  his 
purse,  or  a  skilful,  and  therefore  concealed,  opposition  to  even  a  favorite 
scheme.  It  is  in  understanding  these  whims  on  the  part  of  the  husband 
— for  all  men  are  not  alike,  and  their  whims  are  as  different  as  they  are 
ridiculous — that  a  woman  is  to  evince  her  good  sense  and  display  her  tact. 

"  This  requires  some  knowledge  of  character.  Now,  we  do  not  mean  to 
say  that  a  wife  should  manage  a  husband,  or  that  the  husband  should 
command  the  wife,  though  both  are  done  daily,  quite  innocently,  by  per- 
sons who  little  suspect  they  are  doing  so.  But  you  know  your  friend's 
foibles,  and  have  charity  for  them,  nor  do  you  think  the  less  of  him  for 
these  little  weaknesses  which  he  has  in  common  with  all  mankind.  So  it 
is  with  wife  and  husband.  Each  may  love  the  other  very  dearly,  yet  each 
may  have  whims  and  prejudices  the  other  does  not  approve  of — how,  in- 
deed, could  persons,  educated  so  differently,  be  otherwise?  But  they  do 
not  love  each  other  the  less.  On  the  contrary,  affection  teaches  them,  as 
by  a  sort  of  instinct,  to  avoid  doing  or  saying  things  that  the  other  disap- 
proves of,  until  finally,  what  was  policy  at  first,  becomes  habit,  and  peo- 
ple, from  seeming  to  be  like  each  other,  become  really  what  they  affect." 

We  close  our  long  tirade,  and  we  hope  the  importance  of 
the  subject  will  excuse  our  prolixity,  with  the  following  fine 
extract  from  "An  Address  delivered  before  the  Ladies'  Mu- 
tual Improvement  Association  of  Newbury  Seminary,  upon 
the  Benefit  and  Danger  of  Society." 


OKI'    EDITOR'S  TABLE.  159 

"  That  woman,  more  than  man,  is  exposed  to  this  enthralling  agency  of 
society,  is  obvious,  both  from  her  mental  structure  and  her  social  allot- 
ment. She  has  her  kind  of  superiority,  man  Jus.  These  differ  no  less 
than  the  spheres  in  which  they  were  respectively  created  to  act.  If  he 
excels  much  in  thinking  power,  she  does  more  in  mental  activity.  Her 
keenness  of  perception,  is  no  less  wonderful  than  his  argumentative 
strength.  It  required  the  barbarism  of  a  midnight  age  to  deem  her  a 
flower  whose  fragrance  is  wasted  in  a  day  ; — a  rose,  whose  only  beauty  is 
in  its  morning  blushes.  Not  only  is  her  mind  stamped  with  the  undying 
life  which  belongs  to  man's,  but  it  was  cast  in  a  much  finer  mould  than 
his.  Its  superior  delicacy  is  to  be  sought  in  its  exquisite  finish.  Hence 
her  sensibilities  are  stronger,  tenderer,  more  uniform.  Her  Creator  has 
formed  her  to  be  a  kinder  companion,  a  more  confiding  friend, — a  tenderer 
parent,  and  a  more  ardent  Christian.  But  in  these  very  excellences  orig- 
inate greater  susceptibilities  of  becoming  a  slave  to  the  social  sway.  Be- 
sides, the  sphere  fitly  assigned  for  the  scope  of  her  powers,  is  peculiarly 
favorable  to  this  servitude.  Her  family  is  her  society,  her  home  is  her 
dominion,  her  neighborhood  is  her  world.  Most  with  whom  she  associates 
are  equally  circumscribed  in  their  sphere." 


WE  copy  the  following  joke,  which  we  think  too  good  to 
be  lost,  from  a  contemporary  journal.  It  is  entitled,  "Self- 
Esteem  of  an  Artist." 

As  the  Duke  of  Clarence  was  one  day  sitting  to  North- 
cote,  he  asked  the  artist  if  he  knew  the  prince  regent. 

"No,"  was  the  brief  reply. 

U"  Why,"  said  the  duke,  "  my  brother  says  he  knows  you.''" 
"Oh,"  answered  Northcote,  "that's  only  his  brag." 


_  j. —  -——-, 

To  CORRESPONDENTS. — We  hope  to  hear  from  "Neller" 
again. 

A.  T.  W.  is  always  welcome.  . 

We  would  suggest  to  those  who  furnish  tales  for  the  Mag- 
nolia, the  propriety  of  condensing  them  sufficiently  to  have 
the  whole  inserted  at  once.  Readers  who  have  strong  curi- 
osity are  very  apt  to  skip  stories  with  a  "to  be  continued" 
at  the  end. 

We  regret  that  the  letter  from  our  European  correspon- 
dent must  be  deferred  till  the  next  number. 


I    HEAR    THE    ROBIN'S    MORNING    LAY. 


I  hear  the  Robin's  morning  lay,  And  something  in  his  song     Brings  to  my  mind  a  traia  of  lliunght 


&~ 


Of  years  when  I  was  young.     Brings  to  my  mind  a  train  of  thought  Of  years  when  I  was  young. 


tE&fr&ieE 

:Er:crIt_- 


The  mountain's  l»luff,  the  valleys  low, 
The  murmuring  stream  along ; 

The  frequent  range  and  ramble  round, 
In  years  when  I  was  young. 

The  distant  horn,  the  sounding  flail, 
The  flocks  and  herds  in  throng; 

I  recollect  those  rural  scenes 
Of  years  when  I  was  young. 

The  circling  round  of  youthful  friends, 
As  vines  with  clusters  hung; 

The  fire  that  in  their  bosoms  glowed 
In  years  when  I  was  young. 


Sweet  little  Redbreast,  how  I  lova 
Those  warblings  of  thy  tongue, 

And  all  th«  retrospect  they  bring 
Of  years  when  I  was  young. 

But  scenes  and  friwnd.i  of  earlier  days 
With  time  have  rolled  along; 

And  memory  only  calls  to  mind 
The  years  when  I  was  young. 

Life  with  its  varied  scenos  have  changed, 

I  feel  it  in  my  song ; 
But  Robin  warbles  just  the  same 

AB  when  I  once  was  young. 


161 


SAREPTA. 

[See  Plate.] 

THIS  place  is  mentioned  in  the  seventeenth  chapter  of 
the  first  of  Kings,  where  it  is  called  "Zarephath,  which 
belongeth  to  Sidon."  It  is  again  mentioned  in  the  New 
Testament  by  St.  Luke,  as  "Sarepta,  a  city  of  Sidon." 
Josephus  says  it  was  situated  between  Tyre  and  Sidon. 
Some  ruins  still  exist,  which  mark  the  site  of  this  ancient 
city,  and  their  situation  near  the  sea,  agrees  so  accurately 
with  the  descriptions  given  of  it  by  Josephus,  and  other 
early  writers  and  travellers,  that  its  identity  is  almost 
unquestionable.  It  is  memorable  as  the  spot  to  which  the 
prophet  Elijah  was  directed  to  flee  for  refuge,  by  "the  word 
of  the  Lord,"  during  the  terrible  drought  in  the  reign  of 
Ahab.  Here  were  performed  those  two  interesting  miracles, 
for  the  poor  but  compassionate  widow,  so  simply  and  touch- 
ingly  recorded  in  the  word  of  God.  These  associations 
have  rendered  Sarepta  holy  ground.  As  the  eye  glances 
over  its  ruins,  the  mind  wanders  back  to  those  hallowed  days, 
when  men  enjoyed  the  sublime  and  holy  privilege  of  direct 
intercourse  with  the  High  and  Holy  One,  who  inhabiteth 
Eternity.  Mysterious  and  terrible  communion  !  elevating 
its  favored  possessor  almost  above  the  level  of  mortality ! 
At  the  bidding  of  "the  word  of  the  Lord,"  the  God-inspired 
messenger  stands  before  kings,  who  tremble  and  pale  at 
his  fearless  denunciations  or  terrific  prophecies.  At  the 
voice  of  the  Heaven-gifted  One,  the  departed  soul  returns 
to  its  former  tenement  of  clay.  A  word  from  the  prophet, 
and  the  cruise  of  oil  and  handful  of  meal  are  rendered 
inexhaustible  for  the  supply  of  the  poor  widow,  her  son,  and 
the  man  of  God. 

An  Arab  village,  about  a  mile  from  the  former  site,  pre- 
serves vet  the  name  of  Zararafet.  M. 


162 


For  the  Magnolia. 

THE  SAVIOUR'S  MISSION. 

BY   MRS.    M.    H.    MAXWELL. 

MILD  as  the  balmy  air  of  spring, 

Calm  as  the  breath  of  summer  morning, 
Soft  as  the  light  that  star-rays  fling, 

Night's  sable  robe  with  gems  adorning : 
Thus  o'er  the  dark  and  stormy  sea, 
Thus  o'er  the  waves  of  Galilee — 
A  Saviour's  voice,  a  Saviour's  word, 

Swept  like  the  gentle  viewless  motion 
Of  Eden's  bright  aerial  bird, 

And  hushed  the  night-storm's  dread  commotion, 

Death  rode  upon  the  noxious  air, 

The  bright  and  beautiful  were  dying, 
And  hope  was  yielding  to  despair, 

Where  faint  and  by  the  wayside  lying — 
The  sick  we»Q  on  their  couches  brought, 
And  with  uplifted  hajids  besought 
A  single  glance  from  that  blest  eye, 

Which  everywhere  was  mildly  turning — 
Before  whose  light  diseases  fly, 

Like  night  before  the  day-star's  burning. 

But  hush !  the  voice  of  frantic  grief — 

Tones  fraught  with  sad,  with  fearful  meaning, 
Sorrow  that  mocks  at  all  relief, 

More  bitter  even  than  its  seeming ! 
Shriek  after  shriek,  both  loud  and  long, 
Comes  wildly  through  the  hurrying  throng  ; 
The  breathless  multitude,  aghast, 

Murmur  like  many  waters  flowing — 
And  as  the  fearful  vision  pass'd, 

Ask  whence  it  came,  and  whither  going. 

A  widow  from  the  land  of  Nain, 

Her  only  son  in  death  reclining 
Upon  that  bier,  o'er  which  in  vain 

The  mother  bends  in  deep  repining ; 
But  Jesus  passes  by  that  way, 
Touching  the  bier  whereon  he  lay — 


THE  SAVIOUR'S  MISSION.  163 

The  mother  raised  her  tearful  eye, — 

Fear  not,  said  He,  but  be  believing ! 
Her  hopes  revive,  her  tears  are  dry, 

And  lo,  the  dead  again  is  living ! 

The  night  is  dark  on  Olivet, 

And  hushed  is  Kidron  in  its  flowing, 
And  flowers,  with  heavy  night-dews  wet, 

Reclose  their  buds  so  lately  blowing ; 
And  sadly  wave  the  olive  trees, 
As  faintly  moans  the  evening  breeze  ; 
But  calmly  sweet  the  voice  of  prayer, 

With  soft  Siloa's  murmurs  blending, 
Like  incense  on  the  midnight  air, 

Its  heavenward  pathway  swiftly  wending. 

Coldly  the  tide  of  human  scorn 

O'er  Him  of  Nazareth  was  sweeping, 
Betrayed,  deserted,  and  forlorn, 

Watched  with  a  vigilance  unsleeping 
By  those  dark  spirits,  one  and  all, 
Who,  thronging  Pilate's  judgment  hall, 
Gaze  on  with  cold  malicious  eye, 

Or  raise  the  voice  of  bold  blaspheming  ;— 
Madly  intent  to  crucify 

Him -who  but  seeks  a  world's  redeeming. 

The  night  has  pass'd — another  day 

On  proud  Jerusalem  is  dawning, 
But  some  dark  wing  has  swept  away 

The  brightness  of  that  radiant  morning. 
For  lurid  clouds,  like  purple  gore, 
The  blushing  sky  is  veiling  o'er ; 
Amid  the  crowd  appears  the  form 

Of  Jesus,  in  its  god-like  bearing, 
Decked  with  a  crown  which  bitter  scorn 

Platted  of  thorns  for  Jesus'  wearing. 

And  up  that  wildly  rugged  steep, 

With  faint  and  weary  steps  ascending, 
True  to  the  last  his  charge  to  keep, 

His  Father's  holy  will  defending. 
Not  mine  but  thine  be  done,  He  said, 
And  bowed  to  death  his  willing  head  ! 
The  sun  refused  his  wonted  light, 

Night's  sable  wing  his  covert  making, 
And  shrouding  in  Egyptian  night 

That  city,  to  its  centre  shaking ! 


164  THE    SHEPHERD. 

Within  that  sepulchre  so  cold, 

Silent  in  death  the  Lord  is  sleeping, 
A  stone  upon  its  portal  roll'd, 

And  cherubim  the  night-watch  keeping. 
But  brightly  glows  the  dawn  of  day, 
The  sacred  stone  is  rolled  away  ; 
The  angel-watch  with  plumed  wing 

Forsake  their  lone,  deserted  prison, 
And  heaven's  high  arch  with  anthems  ring, 

For  lo  !  the  Lord  of  Life  is  risen ! 


For  the  Magnolia. 

THE    SHEPHERD. 

BY     ANNIE     T.     WILBUR. 

[Concluded.] 

FORTUNATELY,  Petit-Pierre  was  without  spectators.  Trees 
and  rocks  are  no  flatterers.  The  immensity  of  Nature,  with 
whom  he  was  on  daily  terms  of  intimacy,  soon  restored  to 
him  the  consciousness  of  his  own  insignificance.  Abun- 
dantly furnished  with  paper  and  crayons  by  the  curate,  he 
had  completed  a  large  number  of  sketches,  and  sometimes, 
even  in  his  waking  hours,  seemed  to  hold  in  his  hand  the 
golden  pencil  with  its  sparkling  point,  and  to  hear  the 
lady,  leaning  over  his  shoulder,  say, — "Well  done,  my 
friend.  You  have  not  allowed  the  spark  which  I  placed  in 
your  heart  to  become  extinct ;  persevere,  and  you  shall 
have  your  reward."  Petit-Pierre,  having  acquired  a  more 
accurate  perception  of  forms,  began  now  to  understand 
how  surpassingly  beautiful  was  the  lady  of  his  visions. 
Now  and  then  he  drew  out  the  chequered  handkerchief, 
upon  which  the  spot  could  still  be  distinguished,  saying: 
"  Happy  blood,  which  has  flowed  in  her  veins,  which  has 
mounted  from  her  heart  to  her  head." 

With  the  same  sincerity  which  induced  us,  previously,  to 
acknowledge  that  Petit-Pierre  was  not  in  love,  we  must  now 
confess  that  he  was  so,  and  with  all  the  energies  of  his  soul. 
The  adored  image  never  left  him.  He  saw  it  in  the  trees, 
in  the  clouds,  in  the  sparkling  foam  of  the  cascade.  Thus 
he  had  already  made  great  progress. 


THE   SHEPHERD.  165 

An  event,  apparently  very  simple  and  not  at  all  dramatic, 
happened,  to  change  the  whole  current  of  Petit-Pierre's  life. 

The  deputy  of  the  department  had  obtained  from  the 
minister  of  the  interior,  a  picture  for  the  church  of  *  *  * ; 
the  artist,  careful  of  his  works,  accompanied  his  painting 
that  he  might  himself  choose  the  spot  where  it  would 
appear  to  the  best  advantage.  He  very  naturally  called 
at  the  Rectory,  and  the  curate  did  not  fail  to  mention  a 
young  shepherd  in  the  neighborhood,  who  had  much  taste 
for  drawing,  and  whose  sketches  displayed  great  talent. 
The  portfolio  of  Petit-Pierre  was  emptied  before  the  painter. 
The  youth,  pale  as  death,  pressing  his  hand  to  his  heart  to 
check  its  tumultuous  beatings,  remained  standing  by  the 
side  of  the  table,  awaiting  in  silence  the  sentence  of  con- 
demnation, for  he  could  not  imagine  that  a  well-dressed 
gentleman,  with  a  red  ribbon  at  his  button-hole,  the  author 
of  a  picture  set  in  a  golden  frame,  could  find  the  least  merit 
in  his  rough  sketches  on  gray  paper. 

The  painter  turned  over  several  drawings  without  utter- 
ing a  word ;  then  his  brow  lighted  up,  a  slight  flush  over- 
spread his  cheek,  and  he  exclaimed,  as  if  to  himself,  in  the 
language  of  the  studio:  "How  happy!  how  natural!  not 
the  least  defect !  Corot  himself  could  not  surpass  this ! 
Here  is  a  sketch  which  Delaberge  might  envy ;  this  sleep- 
ing lamb  is  exactly  in  the  style  of  Paul  Potter." 

When  he  had  finished,  he  rose,  walked  directly  to  Petit- 
Pierre,  took  his  hand,  shook  it  cordially,  and  said  to  him : 

"  Though  it  be  not  very  creditable  to  us  professors,  my 
dear  boy,  you  know  more  than  all  my  pupils.  Will  you 
come  to  Paris  with  me?  In  six  months  I  will  teach  you  the 
general  principles  of  our  art;  afterwards  you  can  go  on  by 
yourself,  and  I  think  I  can  safely  predict  that  you  will 
attain  to  eminence  in  the  profession." 

Petit-Pierre,  well  fortified  with  chapter  and  verse  against 
the  dangers  of  the  modern  Babylon,  set  out  with  the  painter, 
accompanied  by  Fidele,  from  whom  he  was  unwilling  to 
part,  and  whom  the  artist  allowed  him  to  take,  with  that 
delicate  kindness  of  soul  which  is  always  associated  with 
talent.  Only  Fidele  would  not  allow  himself  to  be  placed 
on  the  imperial,  and  followed  the  carriage  in  profound 


166  THE    SHEPHERD. 

astonishment,  but  reassured  by  the  face  of  his  master  which 
now  and  then  smiled  at  him  through  the  door. 

We  will  not  trace  day  by  day,  the  progress  of  Petit-Pierre, 
since  that  would  lead  us  too  far.  The  works  of  the  great 
masters,  which  he  visited  assiduously  in  the  galleries,  and 
of  which  he  made  frequent  copies,  placed  at  his  disposal  a 
thousand  methods  of  expressing*  his  ideas,  which  he  never 
would  have  divined  by  himself.  He  passed  from  the  bold- 
ness of  Guaspre  Poussin,  to  the  luminous  softness  of  Claude 
Lorraine,  from  the  savage  wildness  of  Salvator  Rosa,  to  the 
accuracy  and  finish  of  Ruisdael ;  but  he  copied  no  particular 
style ;  he  had  an  originality  too  strongly  marked  for  that.  He 
had  not,  like  ordinary  painters,  commenced  in  the  studio  and 
then  left  his  visiting  card  with  Nature  in  excursions  of  six 
weeks,  only  to  paint  afterwards  by  the  fireside,  rocks  from 
armchairs,  and  cascades  from  water  poured  artificially  into 
a  basin  by  a  complaisant  servant ;  but  impregnated  with  the 
aroma  of  the  woods,  his  eyes  full  of  rural  scenes,  at  the  close 
of  a  long  and  observant  familiarity  with  nature,  he  had  taken 
first  the  crayon,  afterwards  the  brush.  The  assistance  of 
art  had  reached  him  soon  enough  to  prevent  his  losing  time 
in  the  pursuance  of  a  wrong  course,  late  enough  to  preserve 
his  simplicity. 

At  the  end  of  two  years  of  persevering  labor,  Petit-Pierre 
had  a  picture  admitted  to,  and  noticed  in  the  Louvre.  He 
had  earnestly  looked  for  the  lady  of  the  golden  pencil,  but 
though  he  had  watched  attentively  in  his  walks,  at  the  thea- 
tres, at  the  churches,  every  woman  who  bore  the  least 
resemblance  to  her,  he  could  not  discover  one  trace  of  her. 
He  was  unacquainted  with  her  name,  and  knew  nothing  of 
her,  excepting  her  beauty.  Nevertheless,  a  vague  hope 
sustained  him ;  something  whispered  to  his  heart  that 
destiny  had  not  entirely  severed  them.  Though  modest,  he 
was  conscious  of  his  talents;  he  was  soaring  heaven-ward, 
and  the  impossibility  of  attaining  to  the  star  of  his  visions 
diminished  daily.  From  time  to  time,  our  young  painter 
walked  about  in  the  neighborhood  of  his  picture,  leaned 
over  the  railing,  or  affected  to  be  looking  attentively  at  some 
microscopic  frame  near  his  canvass,  that  he  might  gather 
the  opinions  of  the  spectators,  and  then  said  to  himself,  and 


THE    SHEPHERD.  167 

not  without  reason,  that  the  lady  who  drew  so  well,  and 
who  was  so  fond  of  landscapes,  could  not  fail  if  she  was  in 
Paris,  of  visiting  the  exhibition.  In  fact,  one  morning 
before  the  fashionable  hours,  Petit-Pierre  saw  a  young 
female  clad  in  black,  advance  towards  his  picture ;  he  could 
not  at  first  see  her  face,  but  a  little  portion  of  the  white 
neck,  which  shone  like  an  opal  between  her  scarf  and  the 
edge  of  her  bonnet,  enabled  him  to  recognize  her  immedi- 
ately, with  that  certainty  which  habit  gives  to  painters.  It 
was  in  reality  herself ;  the  mourning  which  she  wore,  served 
to  enhance  the  fairness  of  her  complexion,  and,  contrasted 
with  her  black  bonnet,  her  pure  and  fine  profile  had  the 
transparency  of  Parian  marble.  This  mourning  troubled 
Petit-Pierre. 

"Whom  has  she  lost?  her  father,  her  mother,  or,  is  she 
free?"  said  he  to  himself,  in  the  most  secret  recess  of  his 
soul. 

The  landscape  represented  by  the  young  artist,  Was  the 
exact  scene  drawn  by  the  lady,  and  for  which,  Fidele, 
himself  and  his  sheep  had  sat.  Petit-Pierre,  inspired  by 
love,  had  chosen  for  the  subject  of  his  first  picture^  the  spot 
where  he  had  received  the  first  idea  of  painting.  The 
grassy  declivity,  the  groups  of  trees,  the  gray  rocks  piercing 
here  and  there  the  green  carpet  of  turf,  the  grotesque  trunk 
of  an  old  oak,  which  had  been  struck  by  lightning,  all  were 
there  with  scrupulous  exactness.  Petit-Pierre  had  painted 
himself  leaning  on  his  stick,  with  an  air  of  reverie,  Fidele 
at  his  feet,  and  in  the  position  which  the  lady  of  the  album 
had  directed. 

The  young  lady  remained  a  long  time  in  contemplation 
before  the  picture  of  Petit-Pierre  ;  she  examined  attentively 
all  its  details,  advancing  and  receding,  the  better  to  judge 
of  its  effect.  One  thought  seemed  to  occupy  her ;  she  opened 
the  catalogue  and  looked  for  the  number  of  the  piece,  the 
name  of  the  artist  and  the  subject  of  his  work.  The  name 
was  unknown  to  her;  the  book  contained  only  the  woid, 
"  A  Landscape."  Then,  seeming  to  be  struck  by  a  happy 
remembrance,  she  said  a  few  words  in  a  low  voice  to  the 
young  lady  who  accompanied  her. 

After  having  looked  at  some  other  pictures,  she  went 
away. 


168  THE   SHEPHERD. 

Petit-Pierre,  attracted  by  a  magical  power,  and  fearing 
to  lose  this  trace  so  fortunately  recovered,  followed  the 
young  lady  at  a  distance,  and  saw  her  enter  a  carriage. 
To  throw  himself  into  a  cabriolet,  and  to  tell  the  conductor 
not  to  lose  sight  of  the  blue  carriage  with  the  chamois 
liveries,  was  the  work  of  a  minute  with  Petit-Pierre.  The 
coachman  energetically  whipped  his  sorry  steeds,  and  set 
off  in  pursuit  of  the  equipage. 

The  carriage  entered  the  court  of  a  handsome  house. 

Rue ,  and  the  gate  closed  upon  it.     Here  then  dwelt 

the  lady.  To  know  the  street  and  the  number  of  his  ideal, 
was  something;  with  less  than  this,  many  would  have 
pushed  the  adventure  to  the  utmost;  but  Petit-Pierre  was 
not  very  courageous. 

He  must  now  ascertain  the  name  of  the  lady  of  his 
thoughts,  be  introduced  to  her,  make  himself  loved  by  her ; 
three  little  formalities  by  which  our  ex-shepherd  was  much 
embarrassed. 

Fortunately,  chance  came  to  his  assistance,  and  the 
means  which  he  sought,  presented  themselves  to  him.  One 
morning,  his  servant  Holofernes  brought  him,  delicately  bal- 
anced between  his  finger  and  thumb,  a  little  oblong  note, 
which  he  was  smelling  at  with  contractions  and  dilatations  of 
the  nostrils,  as  if  it  had  been  a  bouquet  of  roses  or  of  violets. 

By  the  graceful  and  spirited  handwriting  of  the  address, 
it  was  evidently  from  a  lady,  and  a  well  educated  one.  It 
was  couched  in  these  terms : 

"Sir, — I  have  just  seen  a  charming  picture  of  yours  at 
the  Louvre ;  I  am  very  desirous  to  possess  it  for  my  little 
gallery,  but  fear  I  am  already  too  late.  If  it  still  belongs  to 
you,  have  the  goodness  to  promise  not  to  dispose  of  it  to  any 
one,  and  send  it,  at  the  close  of  the  exhibition,  to  Rue  St. 

H ,  No. .     Name  your  own  terms. 

G.  D'ESCARS." 

The  street  and  the  number  coincided  perfectly  with  that 
where  Petit-Pierre  had  seen  the  carriage  enter.  He  was  not 
mistaken;  Madame  d'Escars  was  in  reality  the  lady  of  his 
visions,  who  had  given  him  the  louis,  with  which  he  bought 
his  first  drawing  materials ;  a  drop  of  whose  blood  he  still 
so  carefully  preserved  on  his  chequered  handkerchief. 


THE    SHEPHERD.  169 

Petit-Pierre  called  upon  Madame  d'Escars,  and  they  were 
soon  on  terras  of  intimacy.  The  upright  simplicity,  at 
once  enthusiastic  and  intelligent,  of  Petit-Pierre,  whom  we 
shall  continue  to  call  thus,  to  the  end  of  our  story,  in  order 
to  conceal  a  name  now  become  celebrated,  delighted  Ma- 
dame d'Escars,  who  had  not  yet  recognized  in  the  young 
artist,  the  little  shepherd  who  had  served  as  a  model,  though 
she  had  from  his  first  visit,  a  vague  recollection  of  having 
seen  his  countenance  elsewhere. 

Madame  d'Escars  had  said  nothing  to  Petit-Pierre  about 
her  own  drawings,  for  she  was  in  no  haste  to  display  her 
talents.  One  evening  the  conversation  turned  on  painting, 
and  Madame  d'Escars  acknowledged,  what  Petit-Pierre 
knew  very  well,  that  she  had  executed  some  sketches, 
which  she  should  have  shown  him  before,  had  she  judged 
them  worthy  of  such  an  honor. 

She  placed  her  album  on  the  table,  turning  the  leaves 
more  or  less  rapidly,  as  she  thought  the  designs  worthy  or 
unworthy  of  examination.  When  she  reached  the  page 
containing  the  sketch  of  Petit-Pierre  and  his  little  flock,  she 
said  to  the  young  painter : 

"This  is  nearly  the  same  spot  represented  in  your  pic- 
ture, which  I  bought  in  order  to  see  my  own  ideas  fully 
carried  out.  The  coincidence  is  singular.  You  have  then 
visited  S ? 

"  Yes,  I  have  spent  some  time  there." 

"  A  charming  country;  retired,  yet  comprehending  beau- 
ties which  one  would  go  far  to  see;  but  since  I  have  taken 
my  album  from  its  case,  you  shall  not  escape  with  impunity. 
Here  is  a  blank  leaf;  please  sketch  something  upon  it." 

Petit-Pierre  drew  the  valley  where  Madame  d'Escars 
had  fallen  from  her  horse.  He  represented  the  lady  thrown 
upon  the  ground,  and  supported  by  a  young  shepherd  who 
was  bathing  her  temples  with  a  wet  handkerchief. 

"What  a  strange  coincidence!"  said  Madame  d'Escars. 
I  fell  from  my  horse  in  a  similiar  spot,  but  there  was  no 
witness  of  the  accident,  excepting  a  little  shepherd  boy, 
whom  I  vaguely  saw  on  my  recovery,  and  whom  I  have 
never  since  met  with.  Who  related  this  to  you?" 

"  I  am  Petit-Pierre,  and  here  is  the  handkerchief  which 


170  THE  LOVED  AND  LOST. 

wiped  the  blood  from  your  temple,  where  I  perceive  the 
scar  of  the  wound  under  the  form  of  a  white  ray." 

Madame  d'Escars  extended  her  hand  to  the  young 
painter,  who  kissed  it  tenderly  and  respectfully,  then,  with 
an  agitated  and  tremulous  voice,  he  related  to  her  all  the 
occurrences  of  his  past  life,  the  vague  aspirations  which  had 
troubled  him,  his  visions,  his  efforts,  and  finally  his  love, 
for  now  he  saw  clearly  into  his  own  soul,  and  if  at  first  he 
had  adored  in  Madame  d'Escars  the  Muse,  he  now  loved 
the  woman. 

What  shall  we  say  more?  The  conclusion  of  this  story 
it  will  not  be  difficult  to  divine,  and  we  promised  at  the 
commencement,  that  there  should  be  no  catastrophe — nothing 
surprising.  Madame  d'Escars  became  at  the  expiration 

of  a  few  months,  Madame  D ,  and  Petit-Pierre  had  the 

rare  fortune  of  espousing  his  ideal,  and  of  seeing  his  visions 
become  reality.  He  loved  beautiful  trees — he  became  a  dis- 
tinguished landscape-painter.  He  loved  a  beautiful  woman — 
he  married  her ;  happy  man  !  But  what  will  not  pure  love 
ind  perseverance  accomplish  ? 


For  the  Magnolia. 

THE  LOVED  AND  LOST. 

BY    REV.    M.    TRAFTON. 

ALL  pale  she  lay  and  panting 

When  I  reached  her  cottage  door, 
And  I  longed  again  to  see  her, 

And  to  hear  her  speak  once  more. 
We  had  been  friends,  and  strong  the  bands 

That  bound  our  hearts  together ; 
We  did  not  dream  that  even  death 

Such  holy  cords  could  sever. 

When  last  I  saw  her  youthful  form, 

When  last  I  pressed  her  hand, 
The  rose  was  on  her  rounded  cheek, 

Her  smile  was  fresh  and  bland  ; 
Her  step  was  light  as  forest  fawn's 

Upon  the  yielding  moss, 
Her  mild  blue  eye  had  love's  bright  beam, 

Her  curls,  the  raven's  gloss. 


THE  LOTED  AND  LOST.  171 

I  knew  her  in  her  infancy, 

I  loved  her  when  a  child — 
So  matronly  her  maiden  mien — 

So  pure,  so  kind,  so  mild  ! 
To  me  she  was  a  sister — I 

To  her  a  brother  seemed, 
And  of  this  painful  parting,  we 

Had  never,  never  dreamed. 

-•   •    '•'   •"II   {>(<£  A'    "'?   •''••'  i'f 

How  often  in  the  twilight  hour 

We  wandered  o'ex  the  green, 
Nature's  sweet  music  heard  with  joy, 

Her  rarest  beauties  seen. 
And  as  the  stars  came  smiling  out 

In  heaven's  blue  arch  above, 
We  talked  of  dwelling  in  that  world^ 

Blest  state  of  primal  love. 

But  0  !  we  scarcely  yet  had  thought 

Of  the  long  dreary  way 
Which  leads  from  this  lone  world  of  grief 

To  that  of  endless  day  : 
The  deep,  wide  gulf  that  lies  between, 

Crossed  by  the  "  bridge  of  sighs," 
Or  then  despair  had  filled  our  hearts, 

And  tears  had  filled  our  eyes. 

But  she  was  smitten — when  I  heard 

That  sad  and  startling  word, 
I  flew,  as  flies  to  meet  its  mate 

The  home-returning  bird  ; 
I  saw  her  once  again,  but  0 ! 

What  havoc  there  was  made  f 
So  changed  I  scarce  should  know  her,  on 

That  snow-white  pillow  laid. 

The  rose  had  left  her  sunken  cheek, 

The  red  had  passed  away 
From  lips  I  had  so  often  kissed 

In  childhood's  joyous  day. 
Quenched  was  the  light  of  those  bright  eyes 

By  her  hot  gushing  tears  ; 
She  seemed  to  have  been  toiling  through 

A  score  of  scathing  years. 

She  smiled,  as  smiles  the  setting  sun, 
Faint  through  a  silvery  shower, 


172  THE  LOVED  AND  LOST. 

As  in  my  bosom  lay  her  head, 
That  stricken,  faded  flower. 

She  whispered — "  O,  I  knew  you  'd  come, 
Last  night  I  dreamed,  with  you 

I  wandered  by  the  flowing  stream, 
Where  perfum'd  violets  grew. 

"  Again  we  sat  within  the  bower 

With  vines  and  ivy  hung, 
You  bade  me  sing  again  the  song 

For  you  so  often  sung. 
And  then  rnethought  a  glorious  bird 

Poured  forth  such  melting  tones, 
We  listened  both,  so  charmed  that  I 

At  last  seemed  there  alone. 

"  And  then  I  slowly  upward  rose, 

Up  through  the  balmy  air, 
While  the  music  of  that  wondrous  bird 

Above  me  murmured  there. 
Higher  I  rose,  and  higher  still 

That  charming  songster  flew  ; 
So  filled  my  soul  with  that  rich  strain, 

I  thought  not  then  of  you. 

"  Still  brighter  then  my  pathway  led 

Through  fields  of  golden  light, 
Such  glories  as  eye  ne'er  had  seen 

Burst  on  my  ravished  sight. 
When,  in  the  distance,  such  sweet  chords 

Upon  my  spirit  fell, 
As  oft  we  heard  at  day's  calm  close, 

In  the  low  curfew's  swell. 

"  But  oh !  just  then  rnethought  I  heard 

Your  voice  loud  on  me  call, 
In  tones  of  choking  grief  it  came, 

I  well  remember  all. 
I  turned — I  woke — and  then  dissolved 

That  vision  quite  away, 
And  much  I  wept  that  I  could  not 

In  that  blest  region  stay. 

"  Keep  me  not  back,  for  through  the  day, 

Oft  as  my  eyes  I  close, 
I  see  again  that  golden  bird, 

And  rich  his  music  flows. 


SKETCH   OF    THE    EMPRESS   JOSEPHINE.  173 

f 
Ay,  now  within  the  room  I  hear 

That  smiling  chorus  band, — 
I  come," — she  upward  turned  her  eye, 

And  waved  her  faded  hand. 

:    fTrti!'#  If  .«3   .' •>.  ;     •   ; 

Silent  and  still  upon  my  breast, 

With  transport  in  her  eye  ; 
A  smile  lay  on  her  parted  lips, 

As  spring's  sweet  snow-drops  lie. 
But  her  heart  was  still — I  felt  the  chill 

Of  death  upon  her  brow  ; 
Her  spirit  with  those  harpers 

She  heard,  is  singing  now. 
Cambridge,  April,  1846. 


For  the  Magnolia. 

SKETCH  OF  THE  EMPRESS  JOSEPHINE. 

THE  island  of  Jamaica  boasts  a  higher  honor  than  the 
sea-washed  shores  of  Corsica,  though  the  latter  will  ever  be 
associated  with  the  name  of  the  greatest  of  modern  con- 
querors. But  the  former  was  the  birth-place  of  the  good, 
the  benevolent  Josephine,  whose  life  was  spent  in  diffusing 
blessings  on  all  around  her. 

The  island  of  Jamaica  was  the  place  of  her  nativity. 
Little  is  known  of  her  parentage,  but  it  is  reputed  respecta- 
ble. Being  early  left  an  orphan,  she  was  adopted  into  the 
family  of  her  uncle,  a  wealthy  planter  residing  on  the  island, 
who  gave  her  at  her  baptism,  the  name  of  Marie  Joseph 
Tascher.  Respecting  the  juvenile  part  of  her  life,  his- 
torians and  biographers  say  but  little.  An  incident  related 
by  herself  to  Madame  de  Stae'l,  refers  us  to  the  fifteenth 
year  of  her  age.  "  One  day,"  said  she,  "  when  approaching 
a  group  of  my  uncle's  slaves,  who  were  dancing  around  a 
gipsy  fortune-teller,  the  old  woman  suddenly  uttered  an 
exclamation  of  surprise,  as  if  she  saw  in  my  destiny  some- 
thing very  wonderful.  When  urged  to  relate  the  cause  of 
her  singular  appearance,  she  said,  '  You  will  soon  be  mar- 
ried to  a  foreigner,  and  go  with  him  to  a  foreign  land.  In 
this  union  you  will  be  unhappy ;  you  will  be  a  widow  while 
young ;  you  will  marry  again,  and  be  afterwards  Queen  of 
France;  but  you  will  die  in  an  hospital.'  Strange  as  this 


174  SKETCH   OF   THE   EMPRESS   JOSEPHINE. 

prophecy  would  have  seemed  to  the  superstitious  and 
romantic,  Josephine  appears  to  have  attached  little  impor- 
tance to  it,  though,  that  she  remembered  it,  is  known  from 
the  fact,  that  when  a  prisoner  in  the  Luxembourg,  she 
mentioned  the  circumstance  to  her  fellow-prisoners,  and 
with  a  mixture  of  playfulness  and  seriousness,  chose  some 
of  them  to  be  her  maids  of  honor.  A  portion  of  this  proph- 
ecy was  verified.  In  her  sixteenth  year,  a  gentleman 
from  France,  on  an  embassy  to  America,  stopping  at 
Jamaica,  formed  an  acquaintance  with  her,  married  her, 
and  conveyed  her  to  France.  With  Beauharnois  (for  such 
was  her  husband's  name)  it  seems  she  lived  happily  for 
a  time ;  but  at  length  being  convinced  of  his  inconstancy, 
she  took  her  two  infant  children,  Eugene  and  Hortense,  and 
returned  to  Jamaica.  Many  years  after,  when  the  ladies 
of  her  court  were  admiring  her  jewelry,  she  observed  to 
them,  that  all  the  gems  she  possessed,  never  afforded  her 
half  the  pleasure  she  experienced  on  receiving  a  pair  of 
shoes  for  Hortense,  while  making  this  voyage  to  Jamaica. 
An  old  man  who  sailed  in  the  same  vessel,  solicited  Hor- 
tense to  dance,  and  she  complied  until  her  feet  were  worn 
and  bleeding,  upon  which  occasion  he  presented  her  with 
the  shoes,  of  which  Josephine  retained  so  grateful  a  remem- 
brance. 

After  remaining  two  years  in  Jamaica,  she  became  recon- 
ciled to  her  husband,  and  returned  to  France.  About  this 
time  the  war  broke  out,  which  was  to  deluge  all  Europe  in 
blood  and  carnage.  Beauharnois  was  a  radical,  and  con- 
sequently incurred  the  suspicions  of  Robespierre  and  his 
party,  who  caused  him  to  be  arrested  and  tried.  The 
proceedings  of  the  civil  tribunals  of  France  were  mere 
mockeries  of  law  and  justice.  To  be  suspected  was  to  be 
convicted.  His  children,  then  at  the  ages  of  ten  and  twelve, 
were  privately  interrogated,  by  unprincipled  and  designing 
men,  desirous  of  drawing  something  from  their  childish 
replies,  to  condemn  a  beloved  father.  What  must  have 
been  the  feelings  of  Josephine,  as  she  paced  to  and  fro,  in 
an  adjoining  apartment,  scarcely  able  to  control  her  emo- 
tions 1  Her  husband  was  the  victim  of  cruel  suspicion,  his 
judges  the  most  ignoble  in  the  land.  What  could  she  hope? 
Well  might  she  pray  "temper  the  wind  to  the  shorn  lamb." 


SKETCH   OF   THE   EMPRESS   JOSEPHINE.  175 

With  a  settled  conviction  of  the  fate  that  awaited  them,  she 
sent  her  children  to  reside  with  an  aunt  in  the  country,  and 
delivered  herself  into  the  hands  of  the  administrators  of  jus- 
tice. Madame  de  Stae'l.  who  was  one  of  her  fellow-prisoners, 
says,  that  she  was  uniformly  cheerful,  and  spoke  of  the 
future,  even  at  this  dark  hour,  with  hope.  On  that  fatal 
morning,  when  the  streets  of  Paris  were  flooded  with  the 
blood  of  its  best  citizens,  Beauharnois  was  guillotined ;  his 
wife  would  have  shared  the  same  fate  next  morning,  had 
not  the  timely  death  of  Robespierre  prevented. 

When  she  first  became  acquainted  with  Napoleon,  he  was 
an  officer  in  the  army,  whose  star  of  fame  had  just  begun  to 
glimmer  in  the  horizon.  The  sword  of  Beauharnois  was 
in  his  possession,  and  the  means  she  used  for  its  recovery, 
led  to  their  first  interview,  which  finally  resulted  in  their 
union.  At  this  period  of  her  life,  we  scarcely  know  whether 
her  situation  is  enviable  or  not.  Her  husband's  rising 
fame,  and  subsequent  glory,  must  have  yielded  her  no 
small  degree  of  satisfaction.  But  hers  was  an  ardent  tem- 
perament, easily  repulsed,  delicate,  and  sensitive.  His  was 
haughty,  stern,  abrupt,  fitful,  and  commanding.  With 
woman's  tact,  she  sought  to  conform  to  his  taste,  to  study 
his  character,  and  anticipate  his  wishes;  yet  often  was  she 
compelled  to  feel  that  ambition  had  defaced  his  better  feel- 
ings, that  while  her  love  was  all  devotion,  there  was  much 
of  selfishness  mingled  with  his.  Her  letters,  when  he  was 
absent,  breathed  warm  affection,  and  seem  at  times  to  have 
afforded  him  much  pleasure.  But  like  the  world  in  general, 
in  prosperity  she  was  forgotten,  in  adversity  remembered 
and  loved.  In  his  exile  and  disgrace,  he  realized  a  little 
of  the  mortification  and  chagrin  he  had  occasioned  her, 
and  perhaps  he  yearned  for  the  sympathetic  heart  he  had 
forever  cast  from  him. 

On  the  6th  of  December,  1804,  Napoleon  and  Josephine 
were  crowned  Emperor  and  Empress  of  France.  Her 
honors  she  seems  to  have  borne,  with  equal  dignity  and 
grace.  The  nobler  impulses  of  her  nature  were  never 
marred  by  prosperity:  she  was  always  kind  and  liberal 
to  the  needy,  and  ever  counselled  on  the  side  of  clemency. 
The  career  of  Bonaparte,  for  six  or  eight  years,  was  one 
of  continued  triumph,  and  Josephine  enjoyed,  perhaps,  as 


176  SKETCH    OF    THE   EMPRESS   JOSEPHINE. 

much  happiness  as  commonly  falls  to  high  stations.  But 
a  blow  awaited  her  that  was  to  destroy  her  peace — to 
crush  her  hopes,  and  separate  her  forever  from  the  idol  of 
her  heart.  When  the  Emperor's  prime  minister  first  inti- 
mated to  her  the  necessity  of  divorce,  she  could  not  believe 
it  was  the  wish  of  Napoleon,  and  when,  at  their  next  inter- 
view, she  mentioned  it,  and  besought  him  in  all  the  impas- 
sioned eloquence  of  grief  not  to  cast  her  from  him,  she  found 
it  was  his  will,  and  in  a  burst  of  agony,  she  threw  herself 
on  the  bed  and  wept.  From  this  time  she  appears  to  have 
maintained  a  stern  control  over  her  feelings,  worthy  of  the 
Empress  of  France.  When  she  found  it  was  her  fate,  she 
yielded  to  it  in  a  manner  that  did  honor  to  her  sex  and 
station.  A  beautiful  situation  at  Versailles  was  assigned 
her,  where  she  gathered  around  her  a  few  choice  friends,  in 
whose  society  her  life  glided  tranquilly  along.  From  this 
period  Bonaparte's  fortune  waned.  When  he  was  on  the 
Island  of  St.  Helena,  Josephine  wrote  to  him  that  she  would 
join  him,  if  she  had  the  right  to  do  so,  and  if  it  would  not 
mar  the  glory  of  his  name ;  and  she  offered  to  part  with  her 
jewels,  to  obtain  money  for  him. 

And  here  we  find  it  almost  impossible  not  to  cast  a 
glance  at  the  character  of  Marie  Louise,  as  it  appears  con- 
trasted with  Josephine's.  Whatever  may  have  been  the 
nature  of  the  Austrian  princess'  regard  for  Napoleon,  or  her 
motives  in  marrying  him,  she  failed  to  manifest  for  him 
that  affection  and  devotion  which  were  shown  by  Josephine. 
She  seems  to  have  loved  her  kindred  and  home  among  the 
Austrians,  better  than  the  society  xof  the  exiled  monarch. 

Josephine,  happily,  did  not  long  survive  the  Emperor's 
defeat  at  Waterloo,  and  banishment  to  St.  Helena.  Through 
life  she  had  been  like  the  willow,  that  bows  to  the  storm 
but  lifts  its  head  to  the  sunshine.  A  well  disciplined  mind 
and  cheerful  temper,  enabled  her  for  a  time  to  support  her 
adverse  fortune,  but  they  were  not  proof  against  the  heart- 
breaking disappointment  inflicted  by  that  last  blow. 

The  sensation  created  by  her  death,  was  a  more  eloquent 
eulogy  upon  her  character,  than  could  be  written  in  words. 
Her  remains,  while  lying  in  state,  were  visited  by  20,000 
of  the  French  people,  and  followed  to  the  humble  tomb  in  the 


THE   ACHING   HEART.  177 

village  church  of  Ruel,  by  2,000  of  the  poor,  who  voluntarily 
closed  the  procession.  The  spot  is  now  marked  by  a  monu- 
ment of  white  marble,  representing  the  Empress  kneeling 
in  her  imperial  robes,  and  bearing  only  the  simple  but  touch- 
ing inscription,  EUGENE  ET  HORTENSE  A  JOSEPHINE. 


For  the  Magnolia. 

THE  ACHING  HEART. 

•!••   •.       ;  •!  J/ti> 
"  Oh !  that  my  life  were  as  a  Southern  flower !" 

I  'M  weary  of  this  weary  world — I  'm  weary  of  its  grief; 

My  sickened  spin*  turns  away,  and  vainly  seeks  relief; 

In  vain,  in  vain  I  seek  for  bliss,  in  vain  I  pray  to  know 

If  pure  unsullied  happiness  dwells  in  this  vale  of  woe  ; 

My  wounded  soul  can  find  no  joy,  no  healing  balm  to  stay 

The  deep  and  fearful  gush  of  grief  that  on  my  spirits  weigh. 

On,  through  the  dim,  dark  dreariness  of  coming,  shadowy  years, 

My  fancy  roves,  and  meets  a  waste,  a  wilderness  of  fears, 

So  dark,  so  drear,  that  death's  dread  vale  would  be  to  me  more  sweet, 

And  all  the  terrors  of  the  tomb,  I  would  not  fear  to  meet. 

One  voice  is  wanting  to  my  ear,  one  deep,  low,  silvery  voice, 
To  breathe  its  tones  of  music  out,  and  bid  my  heart  rejoice  ; 
One  glance  forth  from  that  flashing  eye,  to  chase  away  my  night, — 
One  glance  of  love  f — oh,  would  it  not  o'erwhelm  me  in  its  light ! 
To  hear  love's  own  sweet  language  fall  from  his  dear  lips  on  me  ! 
Peace  !  peace,  my  fondly  picturing  heart,  it  is  but  mockery. 
It  cannot  be — it  may  not  be — for  "  woman1 's  lot"  is  thine ; 
Concealment  shall  feed  on  thy  cheek,  and  thou  in  sorrow  pine. 

Can  I  not  bid  my  heart  be  free  1     Will  not  my  woman's  pride 

Come  now  in  its  o'ermastering  strength,  my  wasted  love  to  hide  ] 

Shall  all  the  gushing  tenderness  which  others  sought  to  wake, 

Come  rushing  from  unfathom'd  depths,  with  its  own  weight  to  break  ? 

I  will  not  yield  me  up  to  dreams,  my  spirit  shall  not  bow 

In  tame  submission  to  a  spell  his  heart  can  never  know  ; 

I  will  awake  my  slumbering  soul,  I  will  again  be  free, 

And  change  into  forgetfulness,  all  my  idolatry  ; 

No  flush  shall  deepen  on  my  brow,  no  trembling  seize  my  frame, 

AVhen  from  the  gay  and  heartless  throng  I  hear  his  own  loved  name. 

;T  is  vain ! — I  wreath  my  face  in  joy,  and  teach  my  lip  to  smile, 
But  oh !  my  aching,  saddened  heart  seems  bursting  all  the  while  ; 
For  sorrow's  wasting  blight  has  found  its  way  into  my  heart, 
And  now  hope's  budding  visions  fade,  youth's  morning  dreams  depart ; 
And  the  bright  sunny  smile  of  joy,  that  on  my  cheek  should  bloom, 
Has  given  place  to  sorrow's  sigh,  the  gushing  tear  of  gloom ; 

12 


178  THE   AVALANCHE. 

And  joyous  glances  of  the  eye  that  once  could  flash  with  mirth, 
Have  gone,  and  tell  in  quenched  beams,  how  fade  the  joys  of  earth. 

They  tell  me  I  am  beautiful,  and  apeak  to  me  of  love  ; 

But  life  too  early  lost  its  charm — their  praises  cannot  move ; 

I  listen  to  the  honied  words  they  breathe  into  my  ear, — 

They  fall  like  Afric's  parching  sands  on  the  wild  desert  drear ; 

I  listen — and  I  smile  perchance,  or  wipe  a  tear  away  ; 

But  the  blest  hope  of  that  bright  world,  unsullied  by  decay, 

Buoys  my  sad  soul  above  its  gloom,  above  its  earthly  strife, 

And  bids  me  plume  my  fainting  wings,  for  realms  of  endless  life.    » 

MINA. 


THE  AVALANCHE. 

THE  beautiful  rivers  with  which  this  country  abounds 
add  greatly  to  its  interest  and  utility.  Some  of  them  are 
long,  and  navigable  for  many  hundreds  of  miles,  and  upon 
their  bosoms  glide  boats  of  almost  every  description,  teem- 
ing with  multitudes  of  human  beings,  and  freighted  with 
the  rich  products  of  our  fertile  soil. 

The  banks  of  these  rivers  furnish  some  of  the  most  eligi- 
ble locations  for  cities,  to  be  found  in  this  or  any  other  land. 
Every  few  miles,  the  traveller  is  surprised  and  delighted 
with  a  city  breaking  upon  his  view,  in  all  the  freshness  of 
youth,  and  evincing  all  the  energy  of  matured  manhood  ; 
with  its  thousands  of  inhabitants,  with  all  the  appendages 
necessary  to  accommodate  and  sustain  them,  surrounded  by 
the  most  delightful  scenery,  and  combining  the  privileges 
of  the  populous  town  and  the  healthfulness  and  luxury  of 
the  country,  with  its  pure  and  bracing  atmosphere  neutral- 
izing the  dense  and  sickly  vapors  of, the  crowded  mart. 

An  affecting  incident  which  occurred  by  an  avalanche  of 
a  hill,  in  the  rear  of  one  of  these  cities,  is  what  I  intend 
more  particularly  to  detail.  If  the  reader  is  curious  to 
know  where  the  following  event  took  place,  he  will  readily 
see  by  turning  to  his  map,  and  as  he  casts  his  eye  over  the 
different  arms  of  "old  ocean,"  he  will  see  one  in  the  axilki 
of  which,  stands  the  largest  city  in  North  America.  The 
arm  is  to  the  north,  and  upon  it  hang  hills,  mountains, 
and  cities ;  it  is  more  than  150  miles  long,  and  near  its  wrist 
is  the  capital  of  the  empire  state.  Still  further  towards  its 


THE    AVALANCHE.  179 

fingers  is  to  be  found  the  very  city  where  the  incident  took 
place  which  I  am  about  to  relate.  This  city  is  long  and 
narrow,  rendered  so  by  the  river  on  the  west,  and  a 
mount  which  extends  quite  its  length  on  the  east;  this, 
however,  is  no  deformity ;  but,  on  the  contrary  it  gives  to  its 
appearance  additional  beauty,  and  on  many  accounts  is 
really  an  advantage  to  it.  Though  the  mount  is  steep,  yet 
there  are  streets  winding  about  on  its  sides,  and  here  and 
there  a  beautiful  cottage  overlooking  the  city,  whose  inhabit- 
ants enjoy  all  the  pleasures  of  rural  life,  living  quite  above 
the  turmoil  and  bustle  of  the  noisy  world  below  their  feet, 
and  yet  permitted  to  sympathize  in  its  transactions  and 
stirring  scenes. 

Near  the  southern  extremity  of  this  mount,  two  ava- 
lanches have  occurred  within  the  last  twenty  years.  The 
first  one,  which  took  place  without  any  previous  warning, 
came  down  with  a  dreadful  crash,  breaking  and  sweeping 
before  it  every  house  in  its  way,  and  burying  the  inhabit- 
ants beneath  their  ruins.  Some  were  rescued  alive,  many 
were  found  dead,  and  others  again  were  never  disinterred. 
They  were  buried  beneath  the  mountain,  never  to  come 
forth,  until  He  who  shall  awake  the  dead,  shall  summon 
the  slumbering  nations  to  judgment. 

For  a  number  of  years  after  this  awful  calamity,  not  a 
house  was  erected  in  its  vicinity ;  but  a  new  set  of  inhabit- 
ants came  in,  and  buildings  began  to  be  reared;  one 
after  another  went  up.  At  first  their  site  was  cautiously 
selected;  but  at  length  some  reckless  adventurers  fixed 
upon  the  very  spot  most  exposed  to  danger,  and  upon  it 
built  their  houses.  Some  who  recollected  the  former  catas- 
trophe, and  others  who  had  heard  of  it,  thought  there  was 
danger,  but  the  fearless  ones  said  "it  might  not  occur  again 
in  a  thousand  years — perhaps  never,  and  they  were  not 
afraid."  Time  passed  on,  and  all  things  continued  as  they 
were.  The  hill  was  there — the  houses  were  there,  and  the 
people  within  them  felt  safe.  But  ofttimes  we  are  in  the 
greatest  danger  when  we  feel  ourselves  the  most  secure. 
Another  huge  body  of  the  mountain  at  length  broke  loose; 
it  began  to  move — its  own  weight  giving  it  fearful  momen- 
tum— there  was  no  escape;  men,  women  and  children  found 


180 


THE   AVALANCHE. 


a  common  grave,  and  many  of  them  were  hurried  into  eter- 
nity with  terrible  violence ;  others  were  buried  beneath  the 
ruins  of  their  dwellings,  maimed  and  mangled,  to  linger  and 
die,  and  a  few  were  saved  alive. 

In  the  cellar  of  one  house — a  house  of  infamy — there  were 
seven  persons  drinking  and  carousing;  one  of  the  number 
providentially  stept  out  just  in  time  to  make  his  escape; 
all  the  rest  were  overwhelmed  and  suddenly  hurried  from 
their  cups  and  their  carousals,  in  this  den  of  death,  into  an 
awful  eternity. 

In  another  dwelling,  a  part  of  the  family  were  absent, 
leaving  a  niece  and  a  little  son.  This  house  was  buried 
beneath  the  mountain ;  but  by  great  labor  they  dug  down  to 
its  ruins.  The  mother  and  sister  were  waiting  the  result 
of  the  search  for  the  bodies  of  the  young  lady  and  their 
beloved  Joseph — a  little  boy  five  years  old.  The  timbers 
of  the  building  were  piled  in  one  promiscuous  ruin.  Broken 
boards,  smashed  timbers,  bricks  and  stones,  which  lay  in 
heaps,  had  to  be  carefully  removed.  Many  hours  were 
occupied  in  this  work.  They  could  scarcely  hope  to  find 
either  alive,  and  dreaded  lest  they  should  find  their  bodies 
horribly  mangled,  as  some  of  their  unfortunate  neighbors 
had  been.  It  was  indeed  affecting  to  hear  the  cries  of  the 
sister  and  mother,  as  the  workmen  progressed  in  their  fear- 
ful enterprise;  sometimes,  fancying  they  were  within  speak- 
ing distance,  the  sister  would  call  in  trembling  accents,  "  My 
dear  Jane,  are  you  yet  alive?"  The  mother,  overwhelmed 
with  agony,  with  all  the  intensity  of  maternal  affection, 
hoping  against  hope,  in  tones  of  heart-rending  distress, 
would  cry  out,  "  Joseph,  my  dear  little  Joseph,  are  you  yet 
alive?  Speak,  my  boy — if  you  cannot  speak,  groan — your 
mother  will  hear  you."  But  all  was  silent  as  the  house  of 
death.  The  workmen  proceeded,  and  finally  arriving  at  the 
main  body  of  the  rubbish,  told  the  friends  that  the  bodies 
could  not  be  far  off.  At  this  the  mother  became  frantic  in  her 
cries — "  Joseph,  my  son  Joseph  !"  At  length,  beneath  some 
of  the  heaviest  timbers,  the  workmen  thought  they  heard  a 
child's  voice.  The  mother,  nerved  with  almost  supernatural 
energy,  put  her  face  quite  down  between  the  timbers,  and 
screamed,  "Joseph,  Joseph,  Joseph," — then  waiting  a  mo- 
ment to  listen  if  there  was  any  sound,  to  the  surprise  of  all 


WE   SHALL   BE   HAPPY   YET.  181 

present,  the  answer  came.  It  was  plain  and  audible :  "  Mo- 
ther, I  am  here — take  me  out — I  can't  move — aunt  Jane 
has  me  in  her  arms,  and  she  can't  move;  do,  mother,  help 
me,  I  can  hardly  breathe."  Excited,  overstrained  nature, 
cguld  endure  no  more ;  the  mother  fainted.  Soon  the  dear 
little  boy  was  found  locked  in  the  cold  arms  of  his  dead 
aunt;  her  head  had  been  smashed  between  two  large  tim- 
bers, under  which  little  Joseph  had  been  preserved  alive, 
with  death  threatening  on  every  hand. 

Was  this  all  chance,  dear  reader?  There  is  a  watchful 
Providence  over  us,  and  that  Providence,  for  inscrutable 
reasons,  saw  it  most  fitting  to  shield  little  Joseph,  and  to 
summon  the  affectionate  aunt,  whose  arms  encircled  him. 
into  eternity.  I  knew  this  young  lady  well;  she  had  often 
felt  the  importance  of  the  one  thing  needful;  the  Spirit  had 
striven  with  her  much ;  but,  alas !  it  is  to  be  feared  that  she 
grieved  its  holy  influences  from  her  heart,  when,  without  a 
moment's  warning,  she  was  called  to  her  account!  Let  us, 
then,  be  warned,  and  be  always  ready. 

Fitchburg,  April,  1846.  R. 


. 
WE  SHALL  BE  HAPPY  YET. 

BY    MRS.    JAMES    GRAY. 

FEAR  not,  beloved,  though  clouds  may  lower, 

Whilst  rainbow  visions  melt  away, 
Faith's  holy  star  has  still  a  power 

That  may  the  deepest  midnight  sway. 
Fear  not !  1  take  a  prophet's  tone, 

Our  love  can  neither  wane  nor  set ; 
My  heart  grows  strong  in  trust — Mine  Own, 

We  shall  be  happy  yet ! 

What !  though  long  anxious  years  have  passed, 

Since  this  true  heart  was  vowed  to  thine, 
There  comes,  for  us,  a  light  at  last 

Whose  beam  upon  our  path  shall  shine. 
We  who  have  loved  'midst  doubts  and  fears, 

Yet  never  with  one  hour's  regret, 
There  comes  a  joy  to  gild  our  tears — • 

We  shall  be  happy  vet ! 

^J  J  x  .-^f:  l'.'-:*niE 

Ay,  by  the  wandering  birds,  that  find 

A  home  beyond  the  mountain  wave, 
Though  many  a  wave  and  storm  combined 

To  bow  them  to  an  ocean  grave — 
By  summer  suns  that  brightly  rise 

Though  erst  in  mournful  tears  they  set, 
By  all  Love's  hopeful  prophecies, 

We  shall  be  happy  yet ! 


182  JOHN  POUNDS  AND  HIS  SCHOOL. 


JOHN  POUNDS  AND   HIS   SCHOOL. 

"DON'T  pray  stop  to  look  in  shop- windows,"  said  th6 
beauty  at  our  side,  as  we  hurried  along  Washington  street, 
one  cold  uncomfortable  morning.  We  begged  for  "just  one 
moment,"  for  we  must  confess  to  the  same  failing  described 
by  the  writer  of  the  following  article — an  unconquerable 
passion  for  picture-shop  windows.  It  was  reluctantly 
granted,  and  we  found  ourselves  before  the  most  interesting 
picture  it  has  yet  been  our  lot  to  look  upon. 

We  gazed  with  feelings  of  pride,  a  short  time  since,  upon 
the  beautiful  portraits  of  our  statesmen,  which  our  country- 
man, Healy,  has  recently  finished  for  the  King  of  the  French 
— but  we  never  stood  before  a  work  of  art,  which  called  up 
so  many  unutterable  thoughts  as  we  found  crowding  upon  us, 
while  we  looked  upon  the  picture  of  "  John  Pounds  and  his 
School."  It  was  a  colored  engraving,  perhaps  a  little  more 
than  a  foot  square,  in  a  plain  mahogany  frame — we  do  not 
intend,  however,  to  describe  it — the  article  we  present  our 
readers  has  done  it  for  us. 

We  glanced  at  the  face  of  our  gay  friend  as  we  turned  for 
another  lingering  look,  and  the  expression  of  those  beautiful 
features  spoke  eloquently  of  its  effect  upon  the  heart.  In 
truth,  it  was  a  life's  lesson.  We  bent  our  steps  homeward, 
inwardly  resolving  some  day  to  become  the  owner  of  that 
silently  teaching  picture.  It  shall  be  framed  in  massive  gilt, 
and  it  shall  be  the  first  object  upon  which  our  opening  eyes 
shall  rest,  and  the  last  to  which  they  shall  close  in  slumber. 
We  are  sure  our  readers  will  appreciate  the  interest  with 
which  we  perused  the  following  from  Chambers'  Edinburgh 
Journal : 

"One  day,  in  passing  along  the  streets  of  London,  I  was 
arrested  by  a  crowd  at  a  print-shop  window.  It  is  perhaps 
not  altogether  'respectable'  to  be  seen  forming  one  of  such 
assemblages ;  but  every  man  has  his  failings,  and  one  of 
mine  is,  to  take  a  peep  at  any  very  nice-looking  prints  which 
the  sellers  of  these  articles  considerately  put  in  their  win- 
dows for  the  public  amusement.  On  the  present  occasion, 


JOHN  POUNDS  AND  HIS  SCHOOL.  183 

'm  taking  a  survey  of  the  printseller's  wares,  I  was  much 
interested  in  observing  a  print  which  differed  considerably 
from  anything  else  in  the  window.  Hanging  between  an 
opera  dancer  and  a  general — both  pets  of  the  public — was 
the  representation  of  an  old  cobbler  sitting  professionally  in 
his  booth,  with  a  shoe  in  one  hand  and  his  knife  in  the 
other,  while,  with  spectacles  turned  up  over  his  brow,  and 
head  averted,  he  was  apparently  addressing  a  ragged  urchin 
who  stood  beside  him  with  a  book.  In  the  back-ground 
was  a  miscellaneous  collection  of  books,  lasts,  old  shoes,  and 
bird-cages,  interspersed  with  the  heads  and  faces  of  a  crowd 
of  children — the  whole  forming  an  unique  combination  of  a 
school  and  cobblery.  Beneath  was  the  inscription,  'John 
Pounds  and  his  school.'  I  was,  as  I  have  said,  interested, 
and  I  resolved  to  know  something,  if  possible,  of  John 
Pounds  and  his  seminary.  On  making  inquiries  accordingly, 
I  discovered,  through  the  agency  of  a  little  pamphlet,  (sold 
by  Green,  50  Newgate  street,)  who  John  Pounds  was,  and 
what  kind  of  a  school  he  conducted. 

"John  Pounds  was  born  of  parents  in  a  humble  rank  of 
life,  in  Portsmouth,  in  the  year  1766.  In  early  life,  while 
working  with  a  shipwright  in  the  dockyard,  he  had  the  mis- 
fortune to  have  one  of  his  thighs  broken,  and  so  put  out  of 
joint  as  to  render  him  a  cripple  for  life.  Compelled,  from 
this  calamity,  to  choose  a  new  means  of  subsistence,  he 
betook  himself  to  the  shoemaking  craft.  The  instructions 
he  received  in  this  profession,  however,  did  not  enable  him 
to  make  shoes,  and  in  that  branch  of  the  art  he  was  diffi- 
dent in  trying  his  hand.  Contenting  himself  with  the  more 
humble  department  of  mending,  he  became  the  tenant  of  a 
weather-boarded  tenement  in  St.  Mary  street,  in  his  native 
town. 

"John  was  a  good-natured  fellow,  and  his  mind  was 
always  running  on  some  scheme  of  benevolence :  and.  like 
all  other  benevolent  self-helpful  people,  he  got  enough  to  do 
While  still  a  young  man,  he  was  favored  with  the  charge  of 
one  of  the  numerous  children  of  his  brother ;  and,  to  enhance 
the  value  of  the  gift,  the  child  was  a  feeble  little  boy,  with 
his  feet  overlapping  each  other,  and  turned  inwards.  This 
yoor  child  soon  became  an  object  of  so  much  affection  with 


184  JOHN   POUNDS   AND   HIS   SCHOOL. 

John,  as  thoroughly  to  divide  his  attention  with  a  variety  of 
tame  birds  which  he  kept  in  his  stall.  Ingenious  as  well  as 
kind-hearted,  he  did  not  rest  till  he  had  made  an  apparatus 
of  old  shoes  and  leather,  which  untwisted  the  child's  feet, 
and  set  him  fairly  on  his  legs.  The  next  thing  was  to  teach 
his  nephew  to  read,  and  this  he  undertook  also  as  a  labor  of 
love.  After  a  time,  he  thought  the  boy  would  learn  much 
better  if  he  had  a  companion — in  which,  no  doubt,  he  was 
right,  for  solitary  education  is  not  a  good  thing — and  ho 
invited  a  poor  neighbor  to  send  him  his  children  to  be  taught. 
This  invitation  was  followed  by  others :  John  acquired  a 
passion  for  gratuitous  teaching,  which  nothing  but  the  limits 
of  his  booth  could  restrain.  '  His  humble  workshop,'  to 
follow  the  language  of  his  memoir,  '  was  about  six  feet  wide, 
and  about  eighteen  feet  in  length ;  in  the  midst  of  which  he 
would  sit  on  his  stool,  with  his  last  or  lapstone  on  his  knee, 
and  other  implements  by  his  side,  going  on  with  his  work, 
and  attending  at  the  same  time  to  the  pursuits  of  the  whole 
assemblage;  some  of  whom  were  reading  by  his  side,  writ- 
ing from  his  dictation,  or  showing  up  their  sums;  others 
seated  around  on  forms  or  boxes  on  the  floor,  or  on  the  steps 
of  a  small  staircase  in  the  rear.  Although  the  master  seemed 
to  know  where  to  look  for  each,  and  to  maintain  a  due  com- 
mand over  all,  yet  so  small  was  the  room,  and  so  deficient 
in  the  usual  accommodations  of  a  school,  that  the  scene 
appeared,  to  the  observer  from  without,  to  be  a  mere  crowd 
of  children's  heads  and  faces.  Owing  to  the  limited  extent 
of  his  room,  he  often  found  it  necessary  to  make  a  selection. 
from  among  several  subjects  or  candidates,  for  his  gratuitous 
instruction;  and  in  such  cases  always  preferred,  and  prided 
himself  on  his  taking  in  hand,  what  he  called  "  the  little 
blackguards,"  and  taming  them.  He  has  been  seen  to  follow 
such  to  the  town-quay,  and  hold  out  in  his  hand  to  them  the 
bribe  of  a  roasted  potato,  to  induce  them  to  come  to  school. 
When  the  weather  permitted,  he  caused  them  to  take  turns 
in  sitting  on  the  threshold  of  his  front-door,  and  on  the  little 
form  on  the  outside,  for  the  benefit  of  the  fresh  air.  His 
modes  of  tuition  were  chiefly  of  his  own  devising.  Without 
having  ever  heard  of  Pestalozzi,  necessity  led  him  into  the 
interrogatory  system.  He  taught  the  children  to  read  from 


JOHN   POUNDS   AND   HIS   SCHOOL.  185 

handbills,  and  such  remains  of  old  school  books  as  he  could 
procure.  Slates  and  pencils  were  the  only  implements  for 
writing,  yet  a  creditable  degree  of  skill  was  acquired ;  and 
ciphering,  the  Rule  of  Three  and  Practice  were  performed 
with  accuracy.  With  the  very  young  especially,  his  man- 
ner was  particularly  pleasant  and  facetious.  He  would  ask 
them  the  names  of  different  parts  of  their  body,  make  them 
spell  the  words,  and  tell  their  uses.  Taking  a  child's  hand, 
he  would  say,  "What  is  this?  Spell  it."  Then  slapping 
it,  he  would  say,  "What  did  I  do?  Spell  that."  So  with 
the  ear.  and  the  act  of  pulling  it;  and  in  like  manner  with 
other  things.  He  found  it  necessary  to  adopt  a  more  strict 
discipline  with  them  as  they  grew  bigger,  and  might  have 
become  turbulent;  but  he  invariably  preserved  the  attach- 
ment of  all.  In  this  way  some  hundreds  of  persons  have 
been  indebted  to  him  for  all  the  schooling  they  have  ever 
had,  and  which  has  enabled  many  of  them  to  fill  useful  and 
creditable  stations  in  life,  who  might  otherwise,  owing  to  the 
temptations  attendant  on  poverty  and  ignorance,  have  be- 
come burdens  on  society,  or  swelled  the  calendar  of  crime.' 

"  Will  the  reader  credit  the  fact,  that  this  excellent  indi- 
vidual never  sought  any  compensation  for  these  labors,  nor 
did  he  ever  receive  any?  Of  no  note  or  account,  his  wea- 
ther-boarded establishment  was  like  a  star  radiating  light 
around :  but  of  the  good  he  was  doing,  John  scarcely 
appeared  conscious.  The  chief  gratification  he  felt  was  the 
occasional  visit  of  some  manly  soldier  or  sailor,  grown  up 
out  of  all  remembrance,  who  would  call  to  shake  hands  and 
return  thanks  for  what  he  had  done  for  him  in  his  infancy. 
At  times  also  he  was  encouragingly  noticed  by  the  local 
authorities  :  but  we  do  not  hear  of  any  marked  testimony  of 
their  approbation.  Had  he  been  a  general,  and  conquered  a 
province,  he  would  doubtless  have  been  considered  a  public 
benefactor,  and  honored  accordingly ;  being  only  an  amateur 
schoolmaster,  and  a  reclaimer  from  vice,  John  was  allowed 
to  find  the  full  weight  of  the  proverb,  that  virtue  is  its  own 
reward.  And  thus  obscurely,  known  principally  to  his 
humble  neighbors,  did  this  hero — for  was  he  not  a  hero  of 
the  purest  order? — spend  a  long  and  useful  existence;  every 
selfish  gratification  being  denied,  that  he  might  do  the  more 


186  THE    TERM    LADY — FOR    THE    LADIES. 

good  to  others.  On  the  morning  of  the  1st  of  January,  1839, 
at  the  age  of  seventy-two  years,  when  looking  at  the  picture 
of  his  school,  which  had  been  lately  executed  by  Mr.  Sheaf, 
lie  suddenly  fell  down  and  expired.  His  death  was  felt 
severely.  '  The  abode  of  contented  and  peaceful  frugality 
became  at  once  a  scene  of  desolation.  He  and  his  nephew 
had  made  provision  on  that  day  for  what  was  to  them  a 
luxurious  repast.  On  the  little  mantelpiece  remained  un- 
cooked a  mug-full  of  fresh  sprats,  on  which  they  were  to 
have  regaled  themselves  in  honor  of  the  new  year.  The 
children  were  overwhelmed  with  consternation  and  sorrow; 
some  of  them  came  to  the  door  next  day,  and  cried  because 
they  could  not  be  admitted ;  and  for  several  succeeding  days 
the  younger  ones  came,  two  or  three  together,  looked  about 
the  room,  and  not  finding  their  friend,  went  away  disconso- 
late.' John  Pounds  was,  as  he  had  wished,  called  away 
without  bodily  suffering,  from  his  useful  labors.  He  has 
gone  to  await  the  award  of  Him  who  has  said,  '  Inasmuch 
as  ye  did  it  unto  one  of  the  least  of  these,  ye  did  it  unto 
me.'  " 


THE  TERM  LADY. — The  term  lady  is  very  significant,  and  the  woman 
who  is  indeed  worthy  of  this  distinguished  title,  will  appear  from  the  fol- 
lowing, which,  so  far  as  we  can  learn,  is  the  true  etymology  of  the  term 
lady.  The  word  originally  was  leafdion,  from  leaf  vc  laf,  which  signifies 
a  loaf  of  bread;  and  dion  to  serve.  The  word  was  afterwards  changed  into 
lafdy,  and  at  length  into  lady.  Thus  you  perceive  that  the  true  meaning 
of  the  term  is,  one  who  distributes  bread.  From  this  exposition,  have  we 
not  reason  to  fear  that  many,  who  have  endorsed  themselves  ladies,  must 
give  up  all  claim  to  so  honorable  a  title  ?  In  times  of  yore,  women  of  the 
very  first  rank  applied  themselves  with  admirable  alacrity  to  the  business 
of  seeking  out  the  poor  and  needy,  of  ministering  to  their  necessities,  and 
hence  they  were  by  way  of  distinction  termed  ladies.  M.yfair  reader,  would 
you  be  a  lady,  not  only  in  name  but  in  reality?  Go  thou,  then,  and  do 
likewise.  O  forget  not  the  desolate  widoiv,  the  lone  orphan !  Feed  the 
hungry,  clothe  the  naked,  warm  the  aged,  comfort  the  afflicted ;  then  shall 
thy  praise  be  known  in  the  gates. 


FOR  THE  LADIES. — A  new  way  to  make  Calicoes  wash  well. — Infuse  three 
gills  of  salt  in  four  quarts  of  boiling  water,  and  put  the  calicoes  in,  while 
hot,  and  leave  it  till  cold.  In  this  way  the  colors  are  rendered  permanent, 
and  will  not  fade  by  subsequent  washing.  So  says  a  lady  who  has  fre- 
quently made  the  experiment  herself. 


EDITOR'S  TABLE. 

WE  were  so  much  interested  in  the  following  fragment  in 
a  foreign  periodical,  that  we  translate  it  for  our  readers. 
It  is  entitled 

THE    THREAD-MAKER    OF    LESBOS. 

"  My  child,  I  have  finished  my  task;  let  us  repose  a  mo- 
ment from  our  labors.  Come  to  me,  sad  one." 

"  Ah,  I  remember,  you  promised  me  a  story." 

"  It  is  true ;  I  will  tell  you  a  dream,  a  beautiful  dream, 
which  I  had : "  and  the  good  woman  laid  aside  her  distaff 
and  spindle,  and'  commenced,  while  the  young  Lesbian 
opened  her  large  eyes  with  curiosity. 

"Ah,  yes.  it  was  such  a  beautiful  dream!  I  was  young, 
as  young  as  you  are;  my  beauty  and  my  wit  were  the 
theme  of  every  tongue.  I  was  the  hope  of  my  poor  father, 
the  pride  of  my  poor  mother;  for  my  beloved  parents  were 
poor,  as  poor  as  we  are,  my  daughter.  They  dwelt  in  an 
humble  cottage  like  this;  they  labored  for  their  daily  bread 
like  us;  but  how  happy  I  was  !  " 

And  the  old  woman  heaved  a  sigh,  long  and  deep.  She 
sat  immovable,  with  fixed  eyes,  aud  an  indescribable  look 
of  intensity,  cast  into  the  dim  and  shadowy  past. 

"Continue,  my  mother,"  interrupted  her  youthful  com- 
panion; "for,  poor  orphan  that  I  was,  you  have  been  a 
mother  to  me." 

"Mother!  mother!  I  was  once  a  mother!  O  my  God ! 
Oh  my  Saviour !  forgive  me.  Girl !  if  you  have  any  pity 
for  a  wretched  woman,  never  pronounce  that  word  to  me." 

"Alas!  I  have  grieved  you;  tell  me  what  troubles  you. 
Does  not  the  good  God  bless  our  labors?  I  sold  our  thread 
well,  to-day,  at  Mytelene;  I  brought  back  the  money  for 
you,  and  as  we  have  many  skeins  already  spun,  I  shall  go 
again  to-morrow." 

"  Ah,  my  good  girl !  " 

"Do  not  afflict  yourself.  But  this  dream,  tell  it  to  me; 
it  will  relieve  you ;  you  will  forget,  for  a  moment,  the  sor- 
rows which  you  refuse  to  confide  to  me.  How  gladly  would 
I  share  and  lighten  them." 

"  Generous  girl !  you  do  not  know  that  there  are  sorrows 


188  EDITOR'S  TABLE. 

for  which   this  world  has  no  balm.     There  are  memories 
which  are  like  vultures,  tearing  their  prey. 

"  I  dreamed,  then,  that  I  was  a  young  and  beautiful  girl, 
adorned  with  roses,  gathered  on  the  banks  of  the  Eurotas. 
I  went  with  my  companions  to  dance  upon  the  summit  of 
Itome,  and  all  said,  as  they  saw  me  pass,  '  How  beautiful 
she  is ! '  When  I  sang  with  the  choirs  of  young  girls  of 
my  age,  the  descendants  of  Homer  would  have  taken  me  for 
one  of  the  divinities  of  Olympus.  One  day  a  beautiful 
young  man,  clothed  like  the  ancient  gods  of  Athens, — like 
their  Apollo,  the  god  of  light, — all  sparkling  with  gold,  with 
purple  and  diamonds,  seated  in  a  magnificent  chariot,  glit- 
tering with  gold  and  jewels,  drawn  by  superb  coursers, 
covered  with  gilded  harnesses,  dismounted  before  our  hum- 
ble dwelling.  Distinguished  by  his  elegance,  even  in  the 
midst  of  his  splendid  court,  the  noble  young  man  advanced 
towards  my  aged  father,  who  was  tranquilly  sitting  at  his 
door,  on  the  bench  where  his  forefathers  had  sat.  The 
brilliant  visitor  bowed  respectfully  before  the  poor  old  man, 
who  arose,  stupefied  with  the  unaccustomed  pomp  which 
met  his  eyes. 

" { Athenian,'  said  he,  c  your  daughter  is  the  most  beautiful 
of  all  the  women  of  Greece.  SRe  shall  be  the  star  of  the 
East,  the  pearl  of  the  imperial  crown.  My  father,  who  is 
the  master  of  the  world,  and  you.  who  are  only  a  poor  man, 
you  shall  both  take  her  by  the  hand, — you  shall  conduct  her 
to  St.  Sophia;  she  shall  there  kneel  before  the  altar,  and  receive 
the  blessing  of  the  patriarch,  and  I  will  lift  up  my  voice  and 
say,  Christians  !  behold  your  future  empress, — for  from  this 
hour  she  is  the  wife  of  the  heir  of  the  empire.' ' 

"Did  it  end  there?"  inquired  her  young  auditor,  as  the 
narrator  abruptly  stopped. 

"  No,  I  continued  to  dream." 

"  Nay,  leave  your  distaff,  my  friend  ;  continue  your  rela- 
tion ;  it  rejoices  me  so  much  to  hear  you." 

"  I  was  empress,"  resumed  the  thread-maker,  with  a  deep 
and  solemn  voice,  and  raising  herself  on  the  low  stool  where 
she  sat,  as  if  from  the  height  of  the  Eastern  throne,  she 
quelled  the  rebellions  of  Iconoclaustes ;  drove  back  the 
northern  barbarians,  and  placed  a  barrier  to  the  progress 


EDITOR'S  TABLE.  189 

of  the  Saracens  in  Asia ;  or  rather,  as  if  she  held  a  treaty  of 
peace  and  of  war,  with  the  generals  of  Aroun  el  Raschid, 
or  gave  orders  to  her  ambassadors,  to  bear  words  of  amity 
and  alliance  to  Charlemagne,  the  great  and  magnificent 
emperor  of  the  West. 

"  I  see  yet  my  imperial  chariot,  drawn  by  four  white 
horses,  caparisoned  with  silk  and  purple,  four  patricians  on 
foot,  superbly  clothed,  guiding  them  by  their  jeweled  reins. 
I  seem  still  to  traverse  the  adorned  streets  of  Constantinople, 
surrounded  with  all  the  powers  of  the  Christian  world,  in 
the  midst  of  the  acclamations  of  a  people  transported  by 
enthusiasm.  I  still  hear  the  shouts  of  admiration,  which 
had  delighted  me  when  a  simple  young  girl,  before  my 
father's  cottage.  How  beautiful  she  is  !  " 

The  aged  thread-maker  here  fell  into  a  moody  silence. 

"It  is  a  great  pity,"  said  the  artless  Lesbian,  "that  it 
was  only  a  dream." 

"  What  do  you  say,  young  girl !  You  do  not  know  how 
terribly  this  dream  ended !  A  change  came  over  every- 
thing ;  this  prosperity,  this  grandeur,  of  which  I  was  so  vain, 
was  darkened  by  an  impenetrable  cloud.  Grief  arose  in 
my  soul,  like  the  Simoom  of  the  desert.  The  diamonds  of 
my  coronet,  became  living  coals  which  burnt  my  brow, 
and  made  me  weep  for  the  sweet  flowers  that  adorned  my 
head,  when  a  simple  young  girl.  The  ermine  on  my 
shoulders  became  like  the  robe  of  Dejanize ;  it  was  drenched 
with  blood.  Oh,  do  you  see  that  ghastly  phantom,  how  it 
menaces  me!  Blood  flows  from  his  hollow  eyes; — do  you 
hear  his  terrific  cries?  He  springs  furiously  towards  me, 
tears  my  royal  robes,  dashes  my  diadem  beneath  my  feet, 
and  snatching  the  sceptre  from  my  hand,  he  beats  me  and 
curses  his  guilty  mother." — 

The  innocent  young  girl  sprang  terrified  to  the  farthest 
extremity  of  their  little  room.  The  unhappy  woman  with 
a  strong  effort,  calmed  her  agitated  features,  made  the  sign 
of  the  cross,  and  seated  herself  resignedly  to  her  distaff 
and  spindle.  The  Lesbian  approached  her,  regarded  her 
intently,  embraced  her,  and  silently  resumed  her  task. 

The  thread-maker  of  Lesbos,  was  Irene,  Empress  of  the 
East. 


190  EDITOR'S  TABLE. 

BOOK    NOTICES. 

WE  received  too  late  to  be  noticed  in  our  May  No.  a  copy 
of  "Gathered  Leaves,"  from  the  gifted  and  accomplished 
author.  Miss  HANNAH  F.  GOULD  is,  undeniably,  the  very  best 
of  our  female  poets.  There  is  a  freshness,  an  originality  about 
her  verse,  and,  beneath  all  her  sprightliness,  a  deep,  earnest 
tenderness,  which  marks  everything  she  writes  more  unmis- 
takably than  her  signature.  We  never  read  anything 
from  her  pen,  which  did  not  contain  some  original  and 
beautiful  thought,  worthily  expressed.  Her  discrimination 
in  the  use  of  words  is  peculiarly  felicitous.  Everybody  ivS 
familiar  with  the  frost-piece  and  the  verse  so  often  quoted, 
as  displaying  this  characteristic  :— 

"  He  crept  to  the  cupboard,  and  finding  there 
That  all  had  forgotten  for  him  to  prepare, 

'  Now  just  to  set  them  a  thinking — 
This  basket  of  fruit  1  '11  bite,'  said  he, 
'  This  costly  pitcher  I  ;11  burst  in  three, 
And  the  glass  of  water  they  've  left  for  me 

Shall  tchick  to  tell  them  I  'm  drinking.'  " 

The  present  volume  is  not  an  annual^  as  might  be  sup- 
posed from  some  of  the  newspaper  notices  of  it.  It  is 
emphatically  a  book  for  all  seasons.  It  is  a  collection  of 
beautiful  fragments  of  prose  and  poetry,  original  and  trans- 
lated. 

We  believe  with  a  friend  of  the  author,  that,  the  best  way 
to  notice  the  book  favorably,  is  to  quote  largely  from  it. 
We  wish  our  limits  allowed  us  more  scope  for  this. — but  just 
listen  to  her  reflections  upon  a  humming-bird,  with  its  wing 
fettered  by  a  cobweb. 

"  It  may  be,  that  some  bright,  aspiring  genius,  that  would 
mount  to  the  empyrean,  and  bless  the  wojld  with  its  divine 
fire,  caught  from  the  pure  element  of  the  sun  and  stars,  is 
hampered  and  kept  down  by  pecuniary  embarrassment, 
which  the  fine  sensibilities  of  its  nature  forbid  it  to  make 
known;  but  which  is  a  sure  and  invisible  bondage,  borne 
in  silence  and  outward  serenity,  like  that  of  the  brilliant 
humming-bird ;  when  the  liberal-minded,  full-hand  patron 
of  genius  and  friend  of  mankind,  could  remove  the  difficulty 


EDITOR'S  TAELE.  191 

as  easily  as  a  cobweb,  and  would  most  readily  do  so,  coulrl 
the  true  state  of  the  case  be  made  clear. 

"It  may  be,  that  native  timidity  and  diffidence  is  the  tie; 
and  the  richly  endowed  mind  has  its  priceless,  precious 
talents  buried  to  society,  shut  up  by  fear  and  trembling, 
while  a  little  kindly  influence  alone  is  needed  to  bring  them 
forth  in  peerless  beauty.  Yet,  still  this  spider-net  is  bound 
about  its  pinion,  as  sure  a  stay  as  prison- grates,  which  it 
may  look  through,  but  cannot  break  nor  pass." 


WE  have  received  from  that  indefatigable  caterer  for  the 
public,  J.  K.  WELLMAN,  several  numbers  of  the  Literary 
Emporium,  the  Literary  Messenger,  and  the  Young  Peo- 
ple's Magazine.  The  first  of  these  periodicals  has  reached 
its  third  volume.  The  second  is  an  interesting  family 
newspaper;  and  of  the  last,  a  fine  monthly  for  juveniles,  it 
is  sufficient  to  say,  that  it  is  edited  by  that  universal  favor it< 
of  boys  and  girls,  SEBA  SMITH. 


To  CORRESPONDENTS. — We  shall  commence  a  new  semi- 
yearly  volume  with  our  next  number.  We  have  deferred 
the  first  of  our  Letters  from  Europe,  in  order  that  subscribers 
who  commence  with  the  new  volume,  may  have  the  series 
unbroken. 

We  shall  also  commence  in  our  next  a  sketch  of  JOHN 
WESLEY,  furnished  by  our  friend  Rev.  D.  WISE,  which  will 
not  fail  to  interest  our  readers. 

A.  L.  D.,  arrived  too  late  for  the  present  number. 

The  articles  upon  the  sciences,  suggested  by  our  Lowel! 
correspondent,  will  be  very  welcome,  provided  they  arc 
brief  and  presented  in  an  interesting  manner,  not  merely 
abstracts  from  text-books.  We  believe  with  our  friend  that 
<:  nothing  is  more  beautiful  than  the  truth  ;"  but  we  like  her 
in  beautiful  garments,  that  all  may  appreciate  her  charms. 

There  are  some  pretty  thoughts  in  '-'The  Dahlia  and 
Forget-me-not,'"  but  the  measure  is  imperfect,  and  the 
writer  has  made  use  of  some  C£  licenses. "  not  allowable  even 
in  poetry.  We  should  be  obliged  to  re-write  it  entirely,  to 
make  it  suitable  for  our  columns. 


THE   COTTAGER'S   RETURN. 


iS"2?o  , 


MUSIC    COMPOSED   FOR    THE    MAGNOLIA 

BY    J.    N.    METCALF. 

I* 

1%. fe._^.^ — 


Joy  !     Joy  !     Joy  !  The  long  dark  night  is  past  ;  Joy  !  Joy  ! 


i                  r^  i*  N- 

i  __     ___  Ik.^  —jfc.  _  M  -                 __  I  _ 
—  FI     fi  .  '            i^  r    i  ~     \ 

_  Xt  _  Cfl-?  ___  A  ___  I         i            (      I  A  __  J  ___  ____  I  ________  . 


z;r=r«=- 

Joy  !    The  weary  way  is  done;  Bright  o' 


er  the  mountain,  fast  As- 


y 


cends  the  cheering  sun;  Joy  !  Joy  !  Joy  !  Ascends  the  cheering  sun. 


Joy !    Joy !    Joy ! 

My  heart  revives  again  ; 

Joy !    Joy !    Joy ! 

My  soul  new  lights  its  fires  ; 

I  speed  along  the  plain, 

With  hope  that  never  tires  ; 

Joy  !     Joy !    Joy ! 

With  hope  that  never  tires. 


See !     See !     See ! 

The  well-known  hill  is  nigh  : 

See !     See !     See ! 

The  spiry  poplars  rise  ; 

The  brook  is  winding  by  ; 

There  still  my  cottage  lies  ; 

See!     See!     See! 

There  still  my  cottage  lies. 


Hark!     Hark!    Hark! 

What  welcome  sounds  of  home ! 

Hark !     Hark !    Hark ! 

I  know  their  meaning  well ; 

Far,  far  my  foot  may  roam, 

Yet  deep  and  strong  their  spell : 

Hark!     Hark!     Hark! 

Yet  deep  and  strong  their  spell. 


For  the  Magnolia. 

GET   WISDOM. 

[See  plate.] 

THE  sun  had  set  on  Gibeon,  and  midnight  brooded  o'er 
The  thousand  smoking  offerings,  yet  reeking  with  their  gore ; 
The  youthful  king  of  Israel  in  sleep  had  bowed  his  head, 
When  by  his  side  there  seemed  to  stand  a  form  of  fear  and  dread. 
The  King  of  kings  and  Lord  of  lords  beside  him  seemed  to  be, 
And  to  the  sleeping  prince  he  spake,  in  tones  of  majesty, 
And  said,  "  What  wilt  thou,  Solomon  ?     What  blessing  from  my  hand 
Wilt  thou  that  I  on  thee  bestow  ?    Thy  God  thou  mayst  command  ?  " 

Then  answered  Israel's  king,  and  said,  "  Thou  didst  my  father  bless, 

As  he  before  thee  strove  to  walk,  in  truth  and  righteousness ; 

And  now  this  kindness  to  my  sire  thou  hast  in  mercy  shown — 

This  day,  as  Thou  didst  promise  him,  his  son  fills  David's  throne. 

0  Lord,  my  God !  e'en  as  a  child  before  Thee  am  I  now, 

Unknowing  how  to  walk  aright,  to  Thee  I  humbly  bow  ; 

For  the  uncounted  multitudes  who  wait  my  sceptre's  sway,  ' 

Give  me  an  understanding  heart,  that  I  may  Thee  obey ; 

Give  me  in  justice  strict  and  firm  o'er  all  to  watch  aright, 

That  nought  be  done  on  Israel's  throne  displeasing  in  thy  sight." 

His  words  well-pleased  Jehovah  heard,  and  forth  he  spoke  again : 
"Now  shall  the  prayer  thou  oflerest,  not  uttered  be  in  vain. 
Thou  hast  not  asked  for  gold  of  earth,  nor  yet  for  length  of  days, 
For  vengeance  on  thy  enemies,  for  honor,  nor  for  praise. 
The  wisdom  deep,  the  knowledge  vast,  which  thou  wouldst  fain  possess, 
Lo !  it  is  thine,  and  through  thy  life  shall  it  thy  people  bless. 
And  though  for  wealth  or  worldly  fame  thou  hast  not  asked  of  me, 
These  shall  be  thine,  exceeding  far  what  has,  or  yet  shall  be." 

The  vision  paused,  the  king  awoke,  and  lo !  it  was  a  dream, 
But  round  about  his  royal  couch  a  radiance  seemed  to  stream  ;  — 
Was  it  the  pure  and  lambent  light  of  Wisdom  from  on  high, 
Or  a  reflection  left  behind  of  brigntness  from  the  sky  ? 

Fair  maiden !  hast  thoa  turned  thee  from  the  gay  and  giddy  crowd  ? 
And  searchest  thou  for  Wisdom's  gems  ?  hast  thou  thy  spirit  bowed 
To  Him  who  talked  with  Solomon  in  visions  of  the  night  ? 
Nay,  fear  thee  not,  He  will  be  found  of  all  who  seek  aright. 
And  thou  shall  know,  e'en  for  thyself,  what  he  of  old  thus  sought  — 
The  gift  of  Wisdom  from  above — of  pure  and  heavenly  thought. 
Then  seek,  as  sought  king  Solomon,  with  God  and  thy  own  heart, 
And  light,  as  from  the  "  shining  ones,"  shall  ne'er  from  thee  depart ; 
And  thou  shall  find,  when  this  brief  life  and  all  its  troubles  cease, 
True  Wisdom's  ways  are  pleasantness,  and  all  her  paths  are  peace. 

M.  o.  s. 
VOL.    II.  1 


For  the  Magnolia. 

SKETCH  OF  JOHN  WESLEY. 

BT     BET.     D.     WISE. 

NO.  I. 

STATE   OF   ENGLAND  AT   MR.    WESLEY'S    BIRTH. — HIS   ANCESTORS. 


GREAT  men  never  die.  They  possess  a  two-fold  immor- 
tality; one  on  earth,  another  in  the  spirit  land.  As,  when, 
in  the  body,  their  mighty  energy  of  soul  moves  multitudes 
to  sympathy  and  action,  with  their  wills;  so,  for  ages  after, 
their  influence  lives  and  acts  in  determining  opinions  and 
forming  characters.  Thus,  Moses,  the  greatest  legislator 
and  moralist  of  antiquity,  lives  among  the  Jews  to  the 
present  day.  Luther,  the  great  genius  of  the  reformation, 
Hves  in  the  spirit  of  the  present  century.  The  religious 
revolution  now  progressing  with  such  moral  grandeur  in 
Germany,  is  the  struggling  of  Luther's  mighty  spirit. 
Ronge  and  his  noble  coadjutors  are  the  instruments  of 
action ;  the  inspiration  is  that  of  the  Wittemberg  monk. 

If  thus  to  enjoy  an  earthly  immortality  is  a  mark  of  great- 
ness, then  was  the  subject  of  this  article,  John  Wesley,  a 
great  man.  It  is  true,  that  little  more  than  half  a  century 
has  passed  since  the  cypress  tree  waved  over  his  grave ;  but 
the  freshness  and  vigor,  the  increasing  extent  of  his  influ- 
ence, show  that  his  memory  is  only  in  the  youth  of  its  im- 
mortality. Even  now  the  call  of  the  Wesleyan  class  roll  is 
like  the  beat  of  the  British  drum — it  never  ceases ;  like  the 
waving  of  the  British  flag,  upon  whose  lion  the  sun  never 
sets,  it  is  all  over  the  world.  In  America,  the  West  Indies, 
the  islands  of  the  Pacific,  of  the  Southern  Ocean,  New  Hol- 
land, the  East  Indies,  Southern  and  Western  Africa,  in  Con- 
tinental E'irope,  in  England,  Ireland  and  Scotland — over 
two  millions  of  persons  are  in  fellowship  with  his  societies, 
believing  his  doctrines,  observing  his  rules,  walking  by  his 
directions,  and  animated  by  his  spirit.  Besides  these,  there 
are  at  least  four  millions  more,  who  attend  the  ministry  of 
his  societies,  revere  his  name,  and  respect  his  opinions. 
Surely  this  fact  alone  is  sufficient  to  establish  his  claim  to 


SKETCH    OF    JOHN   WESLEY.  3 

greatness,  if,  indeed,   greatness   consists   in   the   influence 
which  one  mind  exerts  over  other  minds. 

THE   MEN   OF   THE    EIGHTEENTH   CENTURY. 

I  will  not  say  that  John  Wesley  was  THE  man  of  his  age, 
for  he  was  born  in  the  most  brilliant  era  of  British  history — 
the  beginning  of  the  eighteenth  century.  Brilliant,  alas ! 
not  for  its  piety  and  morality,  but  for  its  achievements  in 
war,  in  science,  in  literature.  It  was  the  age  of  Marlbo- 
rough,  the  victor  of  Blenheim ;  of  Newton,  the  profound 
explorer  of  Nature;  of  a  splendid  galaxy  of  orators  and 
politicians;  of  Addison,  Pope,  Swift,  and  others,  those  ac- 
complished writers,  the  classic  elegance  of  whose  produc- 
tions gave  their  age  the  reputation  of  being  the  Augustan 
era  of  English  literature.  In  this  century,  also,  flourished 
the  metaphysical  and  learned  Butler;  the  pious  Watts;  the 
learned,  though  heretical,  Dr.  Samuel  Clarke;  the  erudite 
Whiston  ;  the  eloquent  Whitefield,  and  others,  whose  names 
live,  and  will  live  forever.*  While,  therefore,  in  presence 
of  all  these  great  cotemporaries,  we  dare  not  pronounce 
John  Wesley  the  only  MAN  of  his  age,  we  do  place  him 
among  the  chief,  if  not  the  chief,  of  the  mighty  spirits  that 
swayed  the  destiny  of  England  and  the  world,  during  the 
eighteenth  century. 

MORAL    STATE    OF    ENGLAND. 

But  glorious  as  was  England  in  war,  science  and  polite 
literature,  at  the  commencement  of  this  century,  she  was 
fallen  desperately  low  in  morality  and  religion.  Infidelity, 
that  huge  dragon  from  the  land  of  darkness,  was  belching 
forth  ruin  and  death,  in  the  form  of  the  writings  of  Hobbes, 
Blount,  Shaftesbury,  Collins,  Woolston,  and  others,  and,  at 
a  somett  hat  later  date,  those  of  the  speculative  Bolingbroke. 
As  might  be  expected,  the  state  of  national  morality  was 
deplorable,  and  religion  was  nearly  banished  from  the  coun- 
try. 

As  this  fact  is  important  to  a  proper  estimation  of  Wesley 
and  his  coadjutors,  I  beg  leave  to  sustain  my  averment  by 

*  See  Jackson's  Centenary  of  Methodism. 


4  SKETCH    OF    JOHN    WESLEY. 

the  testimony  of  a  few  unimpeachable  witnesses.  Let  us 
listen  to  Bishop  Gibson,  in  his  pastoral  letters.  He  says, 
"Profaneness  and  impiety  are  grown  bold  and  open;  in  late 
writings,  public  vices  have  been  openly  recommended  to  the 
protection  of  government,  as  public  benefits;  great  pains 
have  been  taken  to  make  men  easy  in  their  sins,  and  to  pro- 
mote atheism  and  infidelity. 

Bishop  Butler,  in  his  preface  to  that  invaluable  book,  his 
Analogy,  second  edition,  says,  "It  is  taken  for  granted,  by 
many  persons,  that  Christianity  is  not  so  much  as  a  subject 
of  inquiry,  but  that  it  is  discovered  to  be  fictitious.  And 
they  treat  it  as  if  this  were  an  agreed  point  among  all  peo- 
ple of  discernment,  and  nothing  remained  but  to  set  it  up  as 
a  subject  of  mirth  and  ridicule." 

Archbishop  Seeker,  in  his  "  Eight  Charges,"  says:  "  An 
open  and  professed  disregard  of  religion  is  become  the  dis- 
tinguishing character  of  the  present  age;  it  hath  already 
brought  in  such  dissoluteness  and  contempt  of  principle,  in 
the  higher  part  of  the  world,  and  such  profligate  intemper- 
ance and  fearlessness  of  committing  crimes  in  the  lower 
(classes)  as  must,  if  this  torrent  of  impiety  stop  not,  become 
absolutely  fatal." 

That  this  sad  picture  of  immorality  and  irreligion  is  cor- 
rect, is  confirmed  by  the  concurrent  testimony  of  Bishop 
Burnet,  Dr.  John  Guise,  Dr.  Watts,  Rev.  Abraham  Taylor, 
Dr.  Woodward,  and  many  others  of  equally  high  authority, 
who,  in  terms  equally  as  strong,  publicly  lifted  up  their 
voices  against  the  alarming  progress  of  evil  and  infidelity.* 

MR.  WESLEY'S  RELATION  TO  HIS  AGE. 

Such  was  the  hour.  Dark,  gloomy,  portentous.  It  fore- 
boded confusion,  anarchy,  rebellion.  These  results  were 
worked  out  in  France,  in  her  fearful  and  bloody  revolution ; 
where  infidelity  trampled  on  Christianity,  and  vindictive 
passion  sat  gory  and  ghastly  in  the  halls  of  legislation,  and 
on  the  seats  of  justice.  Such  inevitably  would  have  been 
the  fate  of  England.  The  "hour"  foretokened  it;  but  for 
this  hour  God  had  "  the  man."  That  man,  before  all  others, 
was  John  Wesley  !  He  spread  a  religious  revival  over  Eng- 

*  See  Jackson's  Centenary. 


SKETCH    OF    JOHN   WESLEY.  5 

land,  and  that  reformation  saved  the  country.  Vice  fled 
before  it;  virtue  lifted  up  her  desponding  face;  infidelity 
skulked  into  obscurity ;  calm  sobriety  succeeded  to  boister- 
ous passion,  and  that  proud  and  glorious  England  gained  a 
reform,  without  bloodshed,  which  will  slowly,  but  surely 
work  out  a  perfect  freedom  for  all  her  children. 

MR.  WESLEY'S  BIRTH. 

John  Wesley  was  born  at  the  village  of  Epworth,  Lin- 
colnshire, England,  on  the  17th  of  June,  1703.  He  was  the 
second  son  of  Rev.  Samuel  Wesley,  who,  for  the  long  period 
of  forty  years,  was  the  rector  of  Epworth. 

Although  it  is  of  small  importance  to  a  man's  reputation 
whether  his  ancestors  were  of  noble  pedigree,  or  he  the 
first  of  his  family,  since  many  a  feeble  scion  has  sprung 
from  a  stately  stock,  yet,  as  it  is  a  question  always  asked 
by  the  curious,  I  devote  a  few  words  to  Mr.  Wesley's  ances- 
tors. 

THE   ANCESTORS    OF   JOHN  WESLEY. 

Of  the  origin  of  the  Wesley  family,  nothing  is  certainly 
known.  That  it  existed  at  a  very  early  period  of  British 
history,  is  proved  by  the  escallop  shell  in  the  family  arms, 
which  is  conclusive  evidence  that  some  of  the  family  had 
either  been  ^engaged  in  the  crusades,  or  had  been  on  a  pil- 
grimage to  the  Holy  Land.  Of  its  high  respectability,  so  far 
back  as  it  can  be  traced,  there  is  abundant  proof.  The 
greatgrandfather  of  Mr.  Wesley,  was  the  Rev.  Bartholo- 
mew Wesley,  sometime  rector  of  Catherston,  in  Dorsetshire. 
He  was  a  member  of  the  University  of  Oxford,  where  he 
stuiied  both  physic  and  divinity.  He  was  expelled  from 
his  living,  1662,  by  the  operation  of  that  unrighteous  law, 
well  known  to  all  the  readers  of  English  history,  as  the 
"  Act  of  Uniformity,"  passed  on  the  restoration  of  Charles 
Stuart  to  the  throne,  after  the  death  of  the  Protector  Crom- 
well. By  this  infamous  act,  Mr.  W.,  with  thousands  of 
high-minded  and  independent  clergymen,  was  driven  from 
the  ministry,  and  compelled  to  support  himself  by  the  practice 
of  physic.  He  died  shortly  after  this  cruel  and  summary 
ejectment. 

Mr.  Wesley's  grandfather,  Rev.  John  Wesley,  was  also  a 


6  SKETCH    OF    JOHN    WESLEY. 

student  of  Oxford,  where  he  gained  considerable  honor  for 
his  extensive  acquaintance  with  the  Oriental  languages.  In 
1658,  he  became  Vicar  of  Winterborn,  in  Dorsetshire,  from 
which,  like  his  father,  he  was  ejected  by  the  aforenamed 
act.  After  his  ejection,  he  continued  to  preach  in  various 
places,  and  subsequently  became  pastor  of  a  dissenting  con- 
gregation, in  the  town  of  Poole.  He  was  sorely  persecuted, 
suffered  fines  and  imprisonment,  for  conscience'  sake,  and 
died  at  the  early  age  of  thirty-five. 

Mr.  Wesley's  father,  the  Rev.  Samuel  Wesley,  was  rec- 
tor of  Epworth,  in  Lincolnshire.  He  was  born  1662.  His 
father  intended  him  for  a  dissenting  minister,  and  placed  him 
at  the  academy  of  a  Mr.  Morton.  But  being  invited  to  write 
an  essay  in  favor  of  dissent,  Mr.  Wesley,  while  studying  for 
this  purpose,  saw  reasons  to  induce  him  to  embrace  high 
church  principles.  Accordingly,  he  entered  himself  a  student 
of  Exeter  college,  Oxford.  He  was  ordained  the  same  year, 
and  was  shortly  after  presented  with  the  curacy  of  South 
Ormsby.  He  figured  largely  as  an  author,  both  in  prose 
and  poetry.  Having  written  a  History  of  the  Life  of  Christ, 
the  reigning  queen,  (Mary,)  was  so  pleased  with  his  talents 
and  learning,  that  she  presented  him  with  the  rectory  of 
Epworth,  which  he  retained  until  his  death,  which  hap- 
pened April  25,  1735.  He  had  the  honor  of  dedicating  three 
of  his  works  to  three  queens  of  England. 

Such  were  Mr.  Wesley's  ancestors.  All  uncommonly 
learned,  pious,  independent  men ;  bold  thinkers ;  ready  to 
do  whatever  an  enlightened  conscience  dictated,  without 
regard  to  the  pains  and  penalties  liable  to  be  inflicted  by  a 
corrupt  public  opinion,  or  infatuated  .partisan  malice.  As 
the  falling  mantle  of  the  ascending  Elijah  enveloped  his 
faithful  successor,  Elisha,  and  inspired  him  with  the  uncon- 
querable spirit  and  zeal  of  its  former  owner,  so  did  the  spirit 
of  John  Wesley's  ancestors  rest  upon  him.  We  shall  see, 
hereafter,  that  he  inherited  the  unbending  conscientiousness 
of  his  great-grandfather,  Bartholomew ;  the  indomitable  per- 
severance of  his  grandfather,  John;  the  steady,  laborious 
zeal  of  his  father,  Samuel,  and  the  unquenchable  love  of 
learning,  common  to  all  of  them. 


For  the  Magnolia. 

THE  BOY  AND  HIS  ANGEL. 

MARQUERITK   O.  STEVENS. 

A  GENTLE  boy,  fatigued  with  play, 
Retired  to  rest,  and  forgot  to  pray  ; 
But,  after  hours  in  sleep  had  sped, 
He  called  his  mother,  and  sweetly  said, 
"  I  went  to  sleep  in  sunset  light, 
And  now,  dear  mother,  't  is  calm,  still  night ; 
But,  mother  dear,  I  cannot  lay 
And  cannot  sleep,  till  I  rise  and  pray  ; 
For  while  I  slept,  a  lady  fair 
Has  come  to  waken  my  heart  to  prayer ; 
Her  form  was  robed  in  spotless  white, 
Her  brow  was  wreathed  with  a  crown  of  light, 
About  her  lip  was  a  gentle  smile, 
She  spoke  with  words  all  so  sweet  the  while, 
That,  mother  dear,  I  cannot  lay 
And  cannot  sleep,  till  I  rise  and  pray." 

The  gentle  boy  his  young  head  bowed, 
In  simple  faith,  pouring  forth  aloud 
The  evening  lay  of  praise  and  prayer  .»  " 

His  lips  had  learned  from  his  mother's  care  ; 
Again  he  lay  on  his  quiet  bed 
And  sweetly  slept,  for  his  prayer  was  said. 

His  words  sunk  in  the  mother's  breast, 
As  calm  he  lay  in  his  balmy  rest ; 
She  wondered  if  an  angel  bright 
Had  watched  her  boy  in  the  calm,  still  night ; 
Then  thanked  her  God  for  the  angel's  care 
Which  waked  his  heart  unto  praise  and  prayer. 

I  heard  that  mother's  words  of  love 
Poured  out  to  Him  who  heareth  above, 
And  thought,  as  with  uplifted  eyes 
She  sought  a  blessing  from  the  skies, 
That  every  mother  who  prays,  may  seem 
An  angel  bright,  to  her  child's  young  dream. 

Perchance,  as  falls  the  hand  of  time, 
The  boy's  soft  heart  may  grow  hard  with  crime  ; 
The  mother's  words  may  be  forgot, 
Her  sighs  and  tears  be  remembered  not ; 
But  grief,  nor  crime,  nor  years  shall  tear 
From  memory's  waste,  that  mother's  prayer. 
Her  voice  shall  come  at  midnight's  hour, 
And  stir  his  heart  with  an  angel's  power. 


THE  BROKEN  HEARTED 


For  the  Magnolia. 

THE  BROKEN  HEARTED. 

"  You  know,  Ida,  I  cannot  endure  the  thought  of  leaving 
you  alone  in  the  world,  in  utter  poverty  too.  I  could  die 
quite  happily,  if  I  could  see  you  in  a  home  which  you  might 
call  your  own." 

"  Blest  mother,  can  you  for  an  instant  doubt  that  I  would 
give  my  soul  to  purchase  your  happiness  1  It  shall  be  as 
you  desire;  Mr.  Laurens  has  always  been  kind  to  me,  and 
since  dear  father  died,  I  have  almost  learned  to  regard  him  as 
another  father.  It  was  very  thoughtful  in  him  to  make  me 
his  wife,  so  that  I  might  have  a  home,  was  it  not?" 

The  still  youthful  mother  sighed,  as  she  gazed  anxiously 
at  the  enthusiastic  child,  bending  over  her  couch;  for  a 
moment  she  felt  that  it  was  a  fearful  experiment  to  bind 
that  ardent  young  soul  with  such  a  bond,  to  one  on  whom 
she  could  look  in  no  other  light,  than  as  a  father ;  for  a  mo- 
ment she  hesitated  to  decide  the  destiny  of  her  child.  It 
was  but  a  moment,  for  she  saw  in  fancy  the  lovely  orphan 
all  friendless,  and  at  the  mercy  of  every  wind.  She  trem- 
bled at  the  thought ;  to  her  no  evil  seemed  so  great  as  this, 
and  convulsively  clasping  the  cool  hand  to  her  hectic  cheek, 
she  replied,  "  Bless  you,  dearest  Ida,  you  must  be  happy,  for 
Heaven  will  reward  so  dutiful  a  child." 

One  week  from  that  night,  the  slight  girl,  over  whom 
scarcely  fifteen  summers  had  passed,  knelt  before  the  altar 
by  the  side  of  the  stern  philosopher — she  pronounced  the 
words,  of  whose  life-long  import  she  had  never  thought,  and 
again  stood  beside  her  mother.  As  Ida  caught  the  fond 
gaze,  which  had  watched  so  tenderly  over  her  childhood, 
she  rejoiced  that  she  could  thus  sweeten  the  last  drops  in  the 
cup  of  life,  for  one  whose  existence  had  been  crushed  by 
bitter  sorrow.  Day  by  day,  she  sat  in  the  darkened  room; 
night  after  night,  she  watched  by  that  bed  of  death,  till  sleep 
made  the  long  fringes  droop  over  her  soft  cheek.  They 
could  not  persuade  her  to  leave  one  so  dear,  and  when 


THE    BROKEN    HEARTED.  9 

death  had  sealed  the  mother's  lips  in  silence,  who  could  tell 
the  lone  one's  grief,  who  repeat  the  adjurations  which  strove 
to  recall  the  idol  to  its  forsaken  shrine?  Poor  Ida!  thou 
wast  indeed  alone,  more  lonely,  than  if  thy  gentle  mother  had 
left  thee  in  freedom,  to  draw  around  thee  love  and  beauty 
like  thine  own ;  since  in  the  exquisite  chemistry  of  the  heart, 
these  have  a  power  of  attraction,  surer  far,  than  may  be 
found  in  a  coarser  laboratory. 

Mr.  Laurens,  the  wise  philosopher,  looked  with  the  same 
calmness  on  the  placid  features  of  the  departed,  and  the 
bitter  sadness  of  the  living.  He  felt  that  a  fettered  soul  had 
sprung  up  to  glorious  freedom;  he  reasoned  that  the  anguish, 
of  the  child  would  be  softened  as  time  passed  on, — so  why 
should  he  be  moved?  He  provided  teachers,  and  books  and 
pleasures,  such  as  childhood  requires,  and  returned  to  his 
studies;  buried  in  those,  he  seldom  saw  his  "little  pet,"  as 
he  termed  his  girlish  bride,  except  at  the  stated  hour  allotted 
for  her  daily  visit.  Yet  he  loved  Ida ;  perhaps  she  was  as 
essential  to  his  happiness,  as  if  she  had  been  his  hourly 
companion.  He  watched  her  growing  beauty,  calmly  as  he 
looked  on  the  opening  rose.  Time  rolled  on;  the  philoso- 
pher was  right,  for  Ida's  grief  at  the  loss  of  her  mother,  had 
nearly  dispelled  itself — it  was  only  seen  now,  in  the  slight 
shade  of  sadness  that  softened  her  sparkling  grace,  or  by 
the  thread  of  melancholy,  woven  in  the  golden  fabric  of  her 
imagination.  She  was  a  glorious  being;  wealth  scattered 
its  gifts  all  around  her — teachers  delighted  to  search  deeper 
the  springs  of  knowledge,  that  they  might  quench  the  thirst 
of  the  lofty  mind  so  eager  in  its  flight — music  and  song 
floated  around  her.  Was  she,  on  whom  every  eye  looked 
with  envy,  every  heart  with  rapture,  was  she  happy? 
Ah !  you  may  surround  a  fond  heart,  like  hers,  with  all  the 
appliances  of  wealth — you  may  bring  every  pleasure  of  the 
world  and  lay  before  it — but  if  you  deny  the  boon  it  craves 
the  most,  it  turns  sadly  away.  If  it  finds  no  friend  in 
whom  it  may  confide,  on  whom  it  may  pour  forth  the  tides 
of  love  pent  up  in  its  depths,  happiness  can  never  be  found. 
Ida  pined  for  sympathy  and  affection ;  she  would  willingly 
have  resigned  her  station  to  the  child  of  poverty,  whose 
labors  were  cheered  by  the  sweet  glances  of  kindred ;  she 


10  THE    BROKEN   HEARTED. 

shrank  with  instinctive  delicacy  from  the  honeyed  accents  of 
flattery,  and  found  no  companionship  of  soul.  How  could 
she?  Her  own  thoughts  were  wild  and  free  as  the  eagle's 
course,  and  what  caged  prisoner  could  reach  her  daring 
height?  She  despised  the  iron  bonds  of  custom.  What  fel- 
lowship could  exist  between  the  votary  of  fashion  and  the 
worshipper  of  nature  1 

She  grew  to  womanhood,  with  such  a  beauty  as  you 
could  no  more  describe,  than  you  could  paint  the  rainbow  or 
describe  the  colors  of  the  kaleidoscope,  ever  changing,  yet 
always  the  same.  The  philosopher  marked  not  the  effect 
of  time ;  so  gradual  had  been  the  growth  from  the  child  to 
the  woman,  that  she  still  seemed  to  him  the  same  as  when, 
in  obedience  to  her  mother's  request,  she  laid  her  girlish 
hand  in  his,  and  pledged  her  faith  to  words  she  could  not 
comprehend.  He  still  called  her  his  pet,  he  still  provided 
her  with  childish  recreations.  In  vain  she  would  try  to 
convince  him  of  her  capacity  for  higher  things — he  was 
blind  to  all  her  attempts.  She  strove  to  school  her  heart  to 
its  lot,  but  she  could  not;  tears  of  shame  and  indignation 
would  spring  to  her  dark  eyes,  at  hearing  infantile  epithets 
of  endearment  applied  to  her,  before  whom  others  bowed 
with  passionate  reverence.  Had  he  permitted  her  to  be  the 
companion  of  his  studies,  perhaps  she  might  have  loved  him  ; 
but  he  regarded  woman  as  an  inferior  order  in  the  creation  of 
mind;  he  dreamed  not  of  the  electric  swiftness  with  which 
she  would  have  comprehended  his  thoughts — of  the  ardent 
fancy  which  would  have  assisted  his  deeper  research.  He 
knew  not  the  value  of  the  gem  entrusted  to  his  care.  What 
others  almost  regarded  as  a  divinity,  he  trifled  with  as  a 
thoughtless  child.  Ida  looked  upon  the  tie  which  bound  her 
as  an  iron  chain  of  slavery ;  for  him  she  entertained  a  feel- 
ing of  aversion,  all  attempts  to  soften  which,  were  fruitless. 
She  turned  to  the  world  and  implored  forgetfulness ;  she 
strove,  in  a  constant  round  of  gay  assemblies,  to  extinguish 
the  thought  of  her  fate;  while  the  star  of  every  eye,  she 
scorned  the  sordid  souls  of  her  admirers,  and  tried  to  repress 
the  wild  beating  of  her  heart  at  the  sight  of  reciprocal  affec- 
tion. Ida  knew  love  was  not  for  her ;  she  studied  indifference 
to  its  fascinations — but  it  was  as  if  an  yEolian  harp  should 


THE   BROKEN    HEARTED.  11 

strive  to  restrain  its  music,  when  the  wind  passes  over  its 
delicate  strings. 

It  was  a  lovely  spring  evening,  when  one  of  the  most 

splendid  mansions  in Square,  was  sparkling  with  wit, 

fashion  and  beauty.  Ida  held  her  place  in  the  gay  circle,  till 
the  soft  strains  of  music  brought  the  moisture  to  her  dark 
eyes.  It  recalled  the  memory  of  her  infant  days,  when  a 
father's  and  mother's  love  left  her  nothing  to  wish.  She 
stole  out  upon  the  balcony  and  leaned  against  a  pillar, 
around  which  the  woodbine  was  already  throwing  its 
mantle  of  green.  The  soft  light  of  the  moon  revealed  the 
tear  weighing  down  the  silken  lashes,  and  the  dark  hair 
that  hung  around  her  in  caressing  curls;  her  head  rested 
lightly  on  a  hand  of  exquisite  symmetry.  At  that  moment, 
Ida  Laurens  looked  like  a  heroine  of  romance,  or  a  painter's 
ideal — at  least  so  thought  Clarence  Kinsmore,  as  he  gazed 
on  her  with  that  breathless  admiration  we  experience 
when,  after  having  sought  some  coveted  treasure  till  we 
despair  of  its  possession,  it  suddenly  bursts  upon  us  in  all  its 
loveliness.  Clarence  had  long  been  an  admirer  of  female 
beauty — not  alone  that  of  the  sparkling  glance  and  graceful 
form,  but  beauty  of  soul.  The  one  he  had  found,  the  other 
he  believed  to  exist  only  in  fancy.  Though  the  fairest 
gems  of  foreign  lands  had  passed  before  him,  he  silently 
acknowledged,  that  he  had  never  met  one  so  faultless  and 
fair.  He  watched  the  tear  that  stole  down  upon  her  polished 
arm,  and  caught  the  sigh  that  escaped  her  lips.  An  enthu- 
siastic lover  of  nature,  he  sympathized  with  her  as  she 
raised  her  face  toward  the  stars  and  murmured  to  them  hei 
prayer  for  peace ;  she  gazed  on  them,  weaving  their  mysteri- 
ous dance,  till  she  caught  a  faint  reflection  of  their  eternal 
calmness.  A  smile  played  on  her  cheek,  as  she  turned  again 
to  catch  the  thrilling  notes  of  song.  Her  steps  were  fol- 
lowed by  one,  whose  soul  had  once  been  pure  and  noble 
like  her  own.  The  world  had  cast  a  stain  on  his  character, 
but  had  left  unchanged  his  passionate  worship  of  beauty. 
As  their  glances  met,  mutual  sympathy  seemed  at  once 
established ;  the  invisible  chain  that  links  heart  with  heart, 
bound  them  together.  He  spoke;  the  manly  tones  that 
stooped  to  no  frivolity,  fell  gratefully  on  the  ear  so  long 


12  THE    BROKEN    HEARTED. 

wearied  by  the  senseless  folly  of  fashion.  That  night,  when 
he  assisted  Ida  to  her  carriage,  he  promised  to  visit  her 
home,  and  as  he  heard  her  musical  "good  night,"  turned 
away  in  bitterness.  He  had  often  tried  to  love,  but  had 
seldom  seen  one  he  did  not  scorn;  to  Ida  his  heart  had 
bowed,  yet  he  knew  she  could  never  be  his.  And  what 
thought  she  of  the  elegant  stranger,  whose  eye  seemed  at 
once  to  read  her  soul?  She  threw  herself  on  a  couch  in  her 
dressing-room,  and  unconsciously  recalled  every  word  and 
look  which  had  fallen  on  her,  so  new,  and  yet  familiar  as 
"household  words''  they  seemed.  She  was  not  aware  of 
arranging  the  folds  of  her  morning  dress  with  unwonted 
care,  and  was  certainly  ignorant  of  the  joy  gleaming  on  her 
countenance,  as  Clarence  was  announced.  He  talked  of  the 
things  Ida  loved,  and  she  sang  his  favorite  songs.  An  hour 
passed  and  still  another,  they  scarce  remembered  they  had 
ever  been  strangers;  and,  as  Clarence  left  her  door, 
he  felt  she  was  all  his  wildest  dreams  had  ever  fancied. 
He  thought  what  might  have  been,  had  she  been  free; 
how  he  would  have  guarded  her  even  from  the  winds 
of  summer;  how  he  would  have  worshipped  till  the  very 
place  where  she  stood  should  be  sacred,  since  her  feet  had 
pressed  it;  how  she  should  have  been  his  gentle  guide,  from 
the  darkness  in  which  he  strayed,  to  worlds  on  high;  he 
thought,  till  almost  wild  with  the  picture,  he  dared  look  on 
it  no  longer.  Let  those  who  believe  not  in  such  love,  throw 
aside  these  pages  and  pursue  their  grovelling  race  after 
power  or  wealth.  Had  Ida  been  free,  his  visions  had  been 
realized ;  but  such  love  was  not  for  her,  so  she  regarded  Clar- 
ence as  a  brother,  or  imagined  she  did ;  a  new  life  opened 
before  her,  for  she  had  found  sympathy.  He  was  her  daily 
companion ;  it  was  for  him  she  played  or  sung,  danced  or 
read ;  with  him  she  gazed  on  the  stars,  or  watched  the  light- 
ning's play,  or  listened  to  the  sounds  of  the  air  as  it  stole 
through  the  trees.  Imperceptibly  he  became  master  of  her 
thoughts;  if  she  read  a  volume,  it  was  because  Clarence 
had  pronounced  it  a  favorite ;  if  she  credited  a  new 
theory,  it  was  because  he  advised  the  belief;  if  she  wore  a 
particular  dress,  it  was  that  he  admired  it.  Could  he  be 
unconscious  of  his  power  over  the  beautiful  young  creature, 


THE   BROKEN   HEARTED.  13 

thus  submitting  to  his  guidance?  Oh,  no,  he  could  not;  he 
read  it  in  the  color  that  deepened  on  her  cheek,  at  his  unex- 
pected approach, — in  the  face  so  radiant  with  joy  in  his 
presence, — in  the  tone  so  soft  as  she  repeated  his  name, — 
in  the  thousand  acts  which  revealed  to  him  the  secret  she 
knew  not  herself. 

The  philosopher,  coolly  reasoning  on  the  phenomena  of 
nature  and  mind,  knew  nothing  of  the  eloquent  man  who 
was  capturing  the  soul  of  his  "  little  pet."  He  saw  her  daily, 
but,  strange  infatuation!  he  could  only  see  in  her  graceful 
height,  the  child  of  his  departed  friends.  Even  had  he 
been  aware  of  the  almost  constant  presence  of  the  stranger, 
his  thoughts  were  so  little  upon  the  common  subjects  of  life, 
that  no  danger  would  have  been  feared.  Ida  was  humbled 
to  a  plaything  by  the  one,  and  exalted  to  an  angel  by  the 
other;  the  one  she  hated  as  her  tormentor,  upon  the  other 
she  had  poured  forth  all  the  amassed  tenderness  of  years. 
But  she  could  not  always  remain  in  ignorance ;  the  thrill 
which  ran  along  every  nerve  when  he  sometimes  laid  his 
hand  on  hers,  the  flush  that  crimsoned  her  face  when  she 
saw  his  fond  gaze  resting  on  her,  the  restlessness  in  his 
absence,  all  conspired  to  unfold  the  truth.  We  do  not 
know  how  it  all  revealed  itself  to  her;  the  secret  springs  of 
the  heart  have  never  unfolded  themselves  to  human  sight; 
but  we  do  know  that  the  finest  touch,  often  has  electric  power 
to  summon  the  mightiest  energies  from  their  sleep. 

As  the  full  conviction  of  all  her  unbounded  love  for  Clar- 
ence came  over  her,  Ida  felt  as  if  some  blow  had  stunned 
her,  and  taken  away  the  power  of  motion ;  she  pressed  her 
hands  to  her  throbbing  temples  and  tried  to  summon  her  rea- 
son. The  thought  which  was  uppermost,  was,  "does  he 
dream  of  this?"  and  a  blush  of  shame  crimsoned  her  fair 
brow ;  almost  as  quick  came  the  consciousness  that  he  too 
loved,  and  with  it,  a  fear  that  he  was  aware  of  her  affection. 
Regret  for  the  past,  terror  for  the  future,  and  a  feverish 
pain  as  she  endeavored  to  mark  out  her  future  path,  made 
the  time  pass  unnoted  by.  Morning  dawned  on  her  pale 
cheek,  and  as  the  accustomed  hour  of  Clarence's  visit  drew 
near,  she  endeavored  to  appear  as  usual.  She  gained  as 
she  thought  a  wonderful  degree  of  composure,  although,  as 


14  THE    BROKEN    HEARTED. 

she  heard  his  step  on  the  stair-case,  her  heart  beat  so  that 
every  pulsation  was  audible,  and  her  cheeks  burned  as 
though  they  were  on  fire ;  still  she  hoped,  if  she  seemed  very 
natural,  he  would  not  notice  her  emotion.  One  glance  at  her 
downcast  eye  and  restless  action,  sufficed  for  the  accom- 
plished reader  of  hearts.  If  he  at  first  revealed  his  knowl- 
edge to  her,  it  was  only  by  the  deeper  tone  and  the  almost 
tearful  eye  with  which  he  regarded  that  flower  of  earth, 
over  whose  darkened  sky  he  had  cast  a  deeper  shade.  How 
could  he  leave  her  with  all  the  wild  idolatry  of  his  love 
so  returned ;  or  how  persuade  her  to  cast  a  blot  on  her  spot- 
less fame,  to  seek  with  him  an  exile's  home, — a  thing  of 
scorn?  Both  were  silent,  and  while  Clarence  pressed  his 
hand  on  the  swollen  veins  of  his  forehead,  he  almost 
resolved  to  dash  the  cup  of  happiness  from  his  lips,  to  bid 
farewell  forever  to  his  idol ;  he  turned  to  Ida  with  the  word 
trembling  on  his  lips;  the  tears  started  to  her  eyes;  and 
Clarence  knelt  at  her  feet,  and  quickly  told  her  all  his 
worship.  He  told  her,  he  would  carry  her  to  some  sunny 
island  of  the  sea,  where  they  would  live  only  for  love;  he 
blessed  her  for  all  her  angelic  beauty,  and  implored  her  with 
that  passionate  eagerness  which  never  falls  unheeded  on 
woman's  ear,  to  leave  the  fettered  circles  of  fashion, 
and  go  forth  with  him  to  a  life  of  freedom  and  bliss.  It 
was  a  fearful  struggle — her  hand  was  clasped  in  his,  and 
their  dark  locks  almost  mingled  as  he  drew  her  towards 
him.  She  was  drinking  his  intoxicating  words,  when  sud- 
denly her  youthful  mother's  dying  bed  seemed  to  stand 
before  her;  she  heard  the  mild  blessing  so  different  from  the 
stormy  passion  of  the  lover;  she  felt  the  cold  pressure  of  the 
hand  so  often  laid  caressingly  on  her  infant  head.  Her 
pulses  almost  ceased  to  beat;  springing  up,  she  stood  by  his 
side,  and  calmly  bade  him  rise  and  look  on  her  now ; — he  did 
gaze  astonished,  but  with  all  his  knowledge  of  her  soul,  he 
could  not  comprehend  the  change.  She  was  very  pale,  and 
there  was  a  firmness  on  her  countenance  he  had  never  seen. 
She  said,  "I  was  an  orphan  with  none  to  love;  my  dying 
mother  bade  me  wed,  child  as  I  was;  it  was  wrong  in  her; 
but,  O  Clarence !  if  I  tear  out  every  fibre  of  my  heart,  a 
mother's  last  blessing  shall  be  sacred,  long  as  life  remains. 


THE    BROKEN    HEARTED.  15 

that  I  may  hope  to  meet  her  on  high.  You  know  too  well, 
that  I  love  you."  She  spoke  so  low,  Clarence  held  his 
breath  to  hear;  "  but  if  I  die  to-morrow,  I  will  never  see  you 
more.  I  will  pray,  as  I  have  never  yet  prayed,  that  our 
souls  may  at  last  mingle  in  some  home  of  the  bright  angels, 
where  nothing  may  part  us  more,  too  much  loved  Clarence." 
Her  hand  had  rested  in  his  while  she  spoke,  and  now  he 
pressed  it  with  fervor  to  his  lips.  There  was  breathless 
silence  for  a  moment;  it  was  broken  by  Ida's  low  but  firm 
"  farewell  forever,"  and  the  next  moment  Clarence  Kinsmore 
was  alone. 

****** 

Two  years  passed  away,  and  beneath  the  arched  ceil- 
ing of  an  Italian  chamber,  by  a  window  overlooking  the 
Bay  of  Naples,  sat  a  man  in  middle  life,  on  whose  features 
was  an  expression  of  sorrowful  regret,  which  softened  their 
sternness.  The  other  window  of  the  apartment  opened  on 
a  terraced  garden ;  and  there  on  a  low  couch  near  him, 
reclined  the  stricken  form  of  the  lovely  Ida,  for  it  was  she  they 
had  brought  to  die  amidst  the  myrtles  of  Italy.  Her  long 
curls  were  floating  over  her  pillow  like  masses  of  silk,,  the 
veined  lids  were  closed,  the  delicate  hands  were  folded  on 
her  bosom,  and  on  her  countenance  was  a  look  of  repose, 
which  the  sorrows  of  life  had  never  permitted  till  now. 

She  moved  restlessly,  as  though  in  pain,  and  rising  from 
his  seat,  the  philosopher  bent  over  her  couch.  His  hands 
were  pressed  tightly  together,  while  he  gazed  on  the  droop- 
ing lily,  till  tears  started  from  eyes  unused  to  weep.  He 
shuddered  to  see  her  passing  away  like  a  flying  dream,  and 
kneeling  beside  his  gentle  wife,  he  bitterly  exclaimed,  "Oh, 
had  you  but  told  me  all,  you  should  have  been  freed  from 
the  irksome  tie  which  bound  you  to  we." 

Ida  unclosed  her  eyes  and  soothingly  replied,  "  It  is  better 
thus,  for  I  might  never  have  known  your  goodness.  I  bless 
you,  my  friend.  Be  calm,  for  must  not  the  sun  set  upon  us 
all?  but  glorious  will  be  the  opening  dawn  above."  Again 
all  was  silent  till  the  sufferer  spoke.  "  I  can  almost  see  the 
sunny  homes  of  the  angels  ;  hark  !  the  swelling  music,  softer 
than  the  distant  echo,  it  breathes  of  boundless  love.  Bring 
my  harp  quickly,  for  I  shall  never  sing  again  in  this  world; 


16 


THE    BROKEN    HEARTED. 


and  turn  my  couch  so  that  1  may  see  once  more  the  blos- 
soms I  have  loved  so  well.  Ah !  they  bloom  fairer  along 
the  banks  of  the  crystal  river  there" — she  pointed  her 
slender  finger  towards  the  halls  of  the  west,  which  the 
departing  sun  lit  np,  with  all  the  enchantment  of  Elysian 
fields.  While  her  mild  eye  rested  earnestly  on  the  scene, 
a  glorious  inspiration  illumined  her  brow ;  her  face  beamed 
with  a  heavenly  light,  and  grasping  her  harp,  such  tones 
thrilled  from  it,  as  if  an  angel's  hand  had  lightly  swept  the 
chords;  it  stilled  their  pulses  to  hear,  and  undulated  on  the 
air,  till  it  seemed  alive  with  the  heavenly  music.  A  string 
broke  under  the  pressure  of  Ida's  fingers;  she  lifted  her  eyes 
once  toward  the  glorious  scene,  then  her  long  lashes  fell 
forever,  and  as  the  last  echo  of  the  sweet  strain  died  away, 
her  spirit  shot  upward  toward  the  distant  skies. 

One  moon  after  another  had  glistened  on  the  dew-drops, 
which  fell  like  tears  over  the  grave  of  the  departed  one; 
beneath  the  marble  stone,  bearing  the  simple  inscription — 
"Ida,"  the  beautiful  still  slept  on.  The  dark-eyed  Italian 
maidens,  who  paused  to  tell  their  beads  beside  the  mound, 
often  spoke  of  a  harp,  mellow  and  sweet  as  an  angel's; 
they  could  not  tell  whence  it  came,  and  perchance  it  was 
only  the  wind,  murmuring  among  the  dark  cypress  leaves. 

Early  one  summer's  morning,  a  stranger  was  found  cold 
and  stiff  on  the  green  turf;  his  face  was  care-worn,  like  one 
whose  heart  had  been  wrung  with  sorrow,  yet  a  smile, 
which  told  he  had  at  last  won  some  healing  gift,  rested  on 
his  icy  lips;  a  dew-drop  stood  on  his  brow,  such  as  a 
seraph  might  shed  on  the  head  of  a  repentant  mortal,  dying 
thus  alone,  in  the  solitude  of  night.  No  trace  of  his  name 
or  home  was  ever  discovered ;  but  enclosed  in  a  golden 
locket  worn  next  to  his  heart  was  found  a  silken  curl 
carefully  folded  with  a  rosebud,  and  "Ida"  was  written 
beneath  them.  The  villagers  reverentially  unclosed  the 
grave,  and  carefully  laid  a  second  wanderer  there.  They 
strewed  roses  over  the  green  sods,  and  many  a  legend  was 
told  of  the  stranger's  resting-place.  NELLER. 


SOLITUDE.  IT 


For  the  Magnolia. 

SOLITUDE. 

[From  the  French  of  Lamartine.] 
BY   MISS   ANNE   T.    WILBUR. 

HAPPY  is  he,  who,  leaving  haunts  of  men, 
Conceals  himself  in  Nature's  solitudes, 
Effaces,  living  yet,  his  trace  from  earth, 
And  buried  in  the  depths  of  forests  wild, 
Is  fed  on  hope,  and  drinks  oblivion's  wave. 
Like  unseen  spirits  hovering  in  the  air, 
He  tranquil  witnesses  earth's  shadows  pass, 
Forever  shielded  from  the  storms  of  fate. 
He  sees  the  passions,  on  a  troubled  sea, 
With  stormy  breath  inflate  the  human  sail ; 
Inconstant  winds  disturb  not  his  repose  ; 
He  rests  on  God,  whose  being  knows  no  change. 
He  loves  to  contemplate  His  noblest  works, 
Those  mountains  triumphing  o'er  age  and  storms, 
Where,  on  the  venerable  and  solid  rock, 
God  has  engraved  eternity  and  strength. 
When  morn's  first  ray  beams  on  their  summits  high, 
Touching  with  silvery  light  the  loftiest  peak, 
Upspringing  from  his  couch  of  moss  and  leaves, 
He  climbs  exulting  o'er  the  laughing  hills, 
Which  cluster  round  the  hoary  mountain's  base ; 
And  pierces  through  the  gloomy  forest  depths, 
Where  dark  pines  lift  their  tall  stems  to  the  sky ; 
Here,  the  dry  bed  of  torrents  is  his  path ; 
Now,  shattered  cliffs  hang  threatening  o'er  his  head, 
Or,  suddenly  suspended  on  their  edge, 
Astonished  he  recoils  ;  his  startled  gaze 
Turning  with  horror  from  the  wildering  sight, 
Long  views  the  whirl  of  the  abyss  beneath. 
He  mounts — the  horizon  in  his  sight  extends — 
He  mounts — immensity  before  him  lies ; 
While,  beaming  in  the  light  of  new-born  day, 
At  every  step  new  worlds  are  still  revealed  ; 
Till  on  the  mountain  top  the  enchanted  eye 
Has  conquered  space  and  roves  at  liberty. 
So,  when  the  soul  aspiring  to  her  source 
Forever  quits  this  low  terrestrial  vale, 
VOL.  II.  2 


18  SOLITUDE. 

Each  stroke  that  raises  towards  heaven  her  wing 
Enlarges  the  horizon  to  her  view ; 
Her  flight  dissolves  the  mysteries  of  worlds ; 
While,  still  discovering,  she  unceasing  mounts 
To  those  high  places  where  the  seraph's  eye 
Explores  the  regions  of  unbounded  space. 

All  hail !  bright  summits !  fields  of  snow  and  ice ! 

Ye  who  of  mortal  step  preserve  no  trace ! 

Ye  on  whose  peaks  the  eye  scarce  dares  to  dwell ! 

Works  of  the  primal  day !  ye  pyramids  august, 

By  God  himself  on  solid  bases  fixed  ! 

Walls  of  the  Universe,  which  from  that  hour 

Have  never  yet  your  form  or  contour  changed  ; 

In  vain  the  muttering  cloud  sweeps  o'er  your  heights  ; 

The  swelling  torrent  ploughs  your  gulfs  in  vain ; 

Your  hardened  fronts  in  vain  the  thunder  strikes ; 

Those  awful  forms  a  moment  hid  from  view, 

O'er  us  like  night  a  gloomy  shadow  throw  ; 

Then  letting  fall  afar  their  sombre  locks, 

Triumphant  o'er  the  tempest's  wildest  shocks, 

To  Him  who  formed  them  say — Behold  us  still ! 

Upon  the  mountain's  top  I  stand  alone, 
Beneath  my  feet  the  quivering  lightnings  fly, 
And,  swept  by  wings  of  stormy  winds,  the  clouds 
Mingle  with  them  in  furious  whirlpools  vast : 
Like  ocean's  billowy  surges  lashed  by  storms, 
They  endlessly  unroll  in  shoreless  beds, 
Till  neath  vast  rocks  that  check  their  wild  career, 
Against  the  cliff  incessantly  they  break. 
Yet  while  beneath  its  feet  dark  chaos  rolls 
Eternal  glories  crown  its  rocky  brow  ; 
From  that  bright  hour  when  Sol's  returning  car 
Glows  mid  the  splendors  of  the  orient  sky, 
To  the  soft  evening,  when  his  fading  beam 
Slowly  descends  into  the  western  wave, 
His  light  unclouded  lingers  on  its  heights, 
And  gloomy  night  her  mantle  throws  o'er  earth, 
Ere  to  those  mountain  peaks  he  bids  adieu. 

Here,  while  in  streams  of  purest  bliss  I  float, 
In  the  celestial  air  my  soul  breathes  free, 
And  finds  her  long  lost  glory  and  her  peace — 
Yes — in  this  clime  of  heaven,  earth's  dull  cares 
No  longer  drag  my  soaring  spirit  down, 
And  scarcely  of  this  world  she  bears  a  trace. 
But,  Lord,  thine  image  in  these  glorious  works 


SOLITUDE — VALUE    OF    TIME.  19 

Tc  the  expanded  vision  shines  more  clear  : 

As  to  the  priest  who  dwelt  in  holiest  courts, 

Each  step  reveals  thee  to  the  lonely  soul ; 

Silence,  and  night,  and  deepest  forest  shades 

Sublimest  secrets  murmur  in  his  ear, 

And,  while  he  listens,  far  from  earth-born  sounds, 

In  desert  wilds  he  hears  thine  oracles. 

I  've  seen  the  ocean's  agitated  waves, 

Like  fiery  coursers  hurrying  o'er  the  plain, 

Unfolding  at  thy  voice  the  dripping  mane, 

Leaping  o'er  rocks  that  stay  the  furious  tide, — 

Then,  suddenly  recoiling  at  thy  nod, 

Roaring,  return  into  the  deep  abyss. 

I  've  seen  the  streamlet  through  its  flowery  banks, 

Gliding  in  rippling  waves  from  grove  to  grove, 

And  on  its  bed,  by  shade  and  freshness  veiled, 

With  gentle  murmurs  rock  the  fisher's  bark : — 

I  've  seen  the  shaft  from  the  dark  thunder-cloud, 

A  fiery  serpent,  darting  o'er  the  wave  ; 

And  heaven's  veil  of  azure,  lightly  swept 

By  gales  celestial,  redolent  of  flowers  : 

I  've  seen  the  dove,  on  timid  foot  half  poised 

Brush  from  her  humid  wing  the  sparkling  dew, 

Then  cleave  in  measured  flight  the  airy  wave, 

And  panting  fall  upon  the  rocky  shore  : 

I  've  seen  the  mountains  nearest  thine  abode, 

Upon  whose  heights,  amid  eternal  snows, 

Aurora's  hand  her  earliest  roses  sows ; — 

Thy  winter  treasures,  which  by  many  a  maze 

Through  withered  fields  their  silent  course  pursue, 

Till  forth  in  purest  crystal  springs  they  burst, 

And  of  the  dying  verdure  quench  the  thirst. 

These  streams,  that  weep  from  the  o'erhanging  rocks — 

These  torrents,  roaring  through  the  riven  cliffs, — 

These  peaks,  where  Time  has  lost  his  victory, — 

Blend  in  one  glorious  anthem,  Lord,  to  Thee. 


VALUE  OF  TIME. — Napoleon  Bonaparte  having  one  day  visited  a  school, 
said  to  the  scholars,  on  leaving  them,  "  My  lads,  every  hour  of  lost  time  is 
a  chance  of  future  misfortune."  One  of  his  biographers,  Bourrienne,  adds 
that  these  remarkable  words  afford  the  maxim  which  formed,  in  a  great 
degree,  the  rule  of  his  conduct.  Well  did  he  understand  the  value  of  time  ; 
even  his  leisure  was  attended  with  some  exertion  of  mind. 

If  this  soldier  of  the  world  found,  as  he  did,  numerous  advantages  result- 
ing from  a  careful  use  of  time,  should  not  the  Christian  soldier  obey  the 
injunction  of  his  Master — "  Redeem  the  time?  " 


20  LETTERS  FROM  EUROPE. 


For  the  Magnolia. 

LETTERS  FROM  EUROPE  -NO.  I. 

London — its  "Lions" — Moral  aspect — Contrast  with  Paris — The  cause — 
Queen  Victoria — Prince  Albert. 

MY  DEAR  M., — We  have  been  a  week  in  this  great  Baby- 
lon, and  yet  have  not  sent  you  a  letter.  When  you  visit 
London  yourself  you  will  learn  how  to  excuse  us.  It  is  the 
maelstrom  of  the  civilized  world;  we  live  in  an  incessant 
tumult,  receiving  and  returning  visits,  planning  and  execut- 
ing excursions,  walking,  riding,  sailing,  seeing  sights,  hear- 
ing concerts,  and  a  thousand  et  ceteras.  During  this  one 
week,  we  have  seen  Westminster  Abbey,  (work  enough  for 
a  week,)  been  through  the  labyrinth  of  curiosities  at  St. 
Paul's  and  the  Tower,  the  Parliament  House,  several  of  the 
palaces,  the  British  Museum,  the  Royal  Society  Rooms,  the 
Observatory  at  Greenwich,  the  Parks,  &c.  &c.  You  ask. 
dear  M.,  for  a  "minute  description  of  everything  interest- 
ing:" this  glance  at  the  catalogue  will  doubtless  appall  your 
patience  and  incline  you  to  more  moderate  demands.  Never- 
theless, I  shall  say  something  hereafter  about  many  of  these 
"  Lions."  I  write  now  only  some  cursory  sentences  to  as- 
sure you  that  amidst  all  the  "confusion  confounded"  of  the 
week  you  are  not  forgotten. 

You  cannot  conceive  the  relief — the  real  delight  we  felt 
on  hearing  once  more  our  good  and  hearty  old  English 
speech  ringing  everywhere  around  us,  after  the  babel  bab- 
blings of  French,  Spanish,  Italian  and  German,  on  the  con- 
tinent. The  first  being  that  spoke  to  us  on  landing  at  Lon- 
don was  an  emaciated  beggar,  and  his  feeble  accents  were 
like  a  strain  of  music  to  my  ears.  I  felt  like  leaping  among 
the  groups  of  dirty  little  urchins  in  the  streets  and  screaming 
with  them  in  loud  merry  English,  as  in  days  of  yore. 

And  yet  a  sense  of  sadness  and  even  distress  comes  over 
an  observing  mind  in  this  vast  capital — an  impression  that 
cannot  be  dissipated  by  the  curiosities  or  gaieties  which 
.abound  in  it.  Much  as  I  love  our  parent  land,  I  am  com- 


LETTERS  FROM  EUROPE.  21 

pelled  to  say,  that  in  no  city  of  the  continent  have  I  wit- 
nessed in  one  week  such  proofs  of  moral  and  physical 
wretchedness.  London  is  a  pandemonium.  There  may  be 
more  virtue  in  it  than  in  Paris,  but  there  must  also  be  in  it 
more  vice.  Female  vice  especially  has  more  effrontery  in 
London  than  anywhere  else  in  the  old  world;  wretched 
women  literally  throng  some  portions  of  the  city.  Drunkards 
meet  you  at  certain  hours  at  almost  every  corner,  and  (as 
might  be  expected)  loathsome  looking  beggars  of  all  ages 
and  sexes  appeal  to  your  sympathies  at  every  turn.  The 
heart  sickens,  and  one  hastens  to  his  home  to  escape  the 
sight.  You  may  spend  a  week  in  Paris  without  seeing  an 
open  display  of  vice.  You  cannot  spend  an  hour  in  London 
without  seeing  a  score  such  instances.  There  is  a  reason 
for  the  difference,  and  perhaps  it  is  in  favor  of  the  English. 
In  England  vice  and  virtue  are  demarked  by  broad  distinc- 
tions ;  hence  the  victim  of  guilt  (especially  if  a  woman)  is 
cut  off  at  once  from  the  virtuous  classes.  The  vicious  form 
a  vast  class  of  their  own;  they  are  bound  by  no  fastidious 
considerations  which  intercourse  with  the  better  society 
might  impose ;  they  give  themselves  up  therefore  to  thorough 
abandonment.  In  Paris  vice  has  little  of  dishonor  associated 
with  it ;  i*.  reigns  in  all  departments  of  society,  holds  up  its 
head  proudly,  is  fashionable,  fastidious  arid  even  elegant; 
hence  the  apparent  difference  of  the  two  capitals.  You  can- 
not estimate  the  demoralization  of  French  society  by  its 
appearance ;  you  might  over-estimate  that  of  English  society 
by  the  same  criterion. 

You  inquire  about  the  Royal  Family.  We  have  had 
scarcely  a  momentary  opportunity  of  seeing  the  Queen.  I 
confess  I  was  a  little  disappointed  at  her  majesty's  appear- 
ance; her  equipage  was  grand — a  richly  gilded  and  glazed 
carriage,  drawn  by  eight  white  horses,  the  finest  I  ever 
beheld,  with  a  lacquey  to  each  of  them;  guards  splendidly 
appointed;  a  magnificent  cortege  of  nobility  in  carriages;  an 
immense  throng  of  cockneys  vociferating  as  if  they  would 
split  the  welkin  and  make  the  very  angels  come  down  to 
witness  the  sight,  and  amidst  them  all  a  little  and  doubtless 
very  amiable  woman,  who  could  be  eclipsed  in  beauty  and 
(if  you  can  judge  from  appearances)  in  good  sense  by  five 


22  PRIDE A    TRUE    COMMONWEALTH. 

hundred  of  the  belles  of  the  Lowell  factories.  I  don't  mean 
to  say  she  is  ugly,  but  she  is  further  from  being  beautiful 
than  from  the  reverse.  Her  contour  is  round,  her  com- 
plexion fair,  with  the  usual  red  tinge  of  English  women,  her 
expression  amiable  but  in  no  wise  intellectual.  I  thought 
she  seemed  either  slightly  embarrassed  or  vexed  by  the 
demonstrations  around  her.  Her  whole  face  and  neck  were 
repeatedly  suffused  with  red  blushes.  Her  chief  pretension 
is  her  domestic  character,  and  this  (between  you  and  I)  is 
the  highest  honor  of  a  true-hearted  woman.  Since  her 
accession  the  English  court  has  been  a  pattern  of  virtue. 
She  follows  in  the  steps  of  the  excellent  and  still  lamented 
Princess  Charlotte,  whose  domestic  life,  you  will  recollect, 
is  so  beautifully  painted  in  one  of  Dick's  volumes.  Prince 
Albert  sat  by  her  side  in  the  procession  to  Parliament  the 
other  day.  He  compares  well  with  his  royal  lady ;  has  an 
honest,  benign,  youthful  face,  rather  pale,  with  no  strong 
characteristic  features.  He  is  evidently  in  delicate  health 
and  looks  "  consumptive."  Adieu,  dear  M.  Take  the  above 
as  a  little  introductory  gossip ;  before  long  you  shall  hear 
from  us  more  fully.  J. 


PRIDE  verms  TRUTH. — There  is  no  single  obstacle  which  stands  in  the 
way  of  more  people  in  the  search  of  truth  than  pride.  They  have  once 
declared  themselves  of  a  particular  opinion,  and  they  cannot  bring  them- 
selves to  think  they  could  possibly  be  in  the  wrong ;  consequently  they 
cannot  persuade  themselves  of  the  necessity  of  reexamining  the  founda- 
tions of  their  opinions.  To  acknowledge  and  give  up  their  error  would  be 
a  still  severer  trial.  But  the  truth  is,  there  is  more  greatness  of  mind  in 
candidly  giving  up  a  mistake,  than  would  have  appeared  in  escaping  it  at 
first,  if  not  a  very  shameful  one.  The  surest  way  of  avoiding  error  is, 
careful  examination.  The  best  way  of  leaving  room  for  a  change  of 
opinion,  which  should  always  be  provided  for,  is  to  be  modest  in  delivering 
one's  sentiments.  A  man  may,  without  confusion,  give  up  an  opinion 
which  he  declared  without  arrogance. 

A  TRUE  COMMONWEALTH. — Milton  with  equal  truth  and  nerve  observes 
that  "  a  Commonwealth  ought  to  be  as  one  huge  Christian  personage,  one 
mighty  growth  and  stature  of  an  honest  man,  as  big  and  compact  in  virtue 
as  in  body ;  for  look  what  the  grounds  and  causes  are  of  single  happiness 
to  one  man,  the  same  ye  shall  find  them  to  a  whole  state." 

A  heart  dead  to  the  claims  of  man  cannot  be  alive  to  the  claims  of  God  ; 
and  religion  cannot  flourish  on  the  ground  where  humanity  withers. 


LEAVES  FROM  THE  NOTE  BOOK  OF  A  GOVERNESS.     23 


For  the  Magnolia. 

"Take  therefore  no  thought  for  the  morrow;   for  the  morrow  shall  take  thought  for  tfae 
tfcmg*  of  Itself."    Matt.  ri.  34. 

I  WOULD  not  turn  aside  the  veil 

That  hides  the  future  from  my  eye, 
And  through  the  mists  of  distant  years 
Discern  my  coming  destiny ; — 
I  would  not  know 
If  joy  or  woe 
Shall  mark  the  moments  as  they  fly. 

By  memory's  aid  I  backward  glance, — 

And  as  I  view  my  past  career, 
And  mark  the  contents  of  its  page, — 
A  varied  picture  meets  me  there. 
In  light  and  shade 
It  stands  portrayed, 
Here  bright  with  joy,  there  dark  with  care. 

And  thus  shall  be  my  future  life — 
A  cup  of  mingled  grief  and  joy ; 
A  child  of  earth  can  never  find 
Pure  happiness  without  alloy : 
Our  strength  is  frail, 
And  pleasures  fail, 
And  soon  the  wearied  mind  will  cloy. 

I  know  my  fate  is  in  His  hands 

Whose  wisdom  guides  the  rolling  year, 
Whose  power  upholds  Creation's  plan, 
Whose  mercy  saves  from  dangers  near ; 
In  His  control 
I  leave  my  all, 
Safe  in  his  love,  why  should  I  fear? 

ADA. 


For  the  Magnolia. 

LEAVES  FROM  THE  NOTE  BOOK  OF  A  GOVERNESS 

BY   LAURA   LOVKLL. 

WOODVALE  !     What  a  host  of  sweet  recollections  does  the 
name  awaken.     I  see  the  gate,  venerable  in  its  antiquity, 


24     LEAVES  FROM  THE  NOTE  BOOK  OF  A  GOVERNESS. 

which,  opening  on  the  public  road,  warns  the  passing  travel- 
ler that  beyond  "  the  dark  pine  grove"  there  lies  a  home. 
Once  more  I  follow  the  windings  of  the  green  and  shady 
lane,  and  emerge  at  length  before  the  grassy  lawn  and  the 
white  mansion  over  which  the  clustering  multiflora  has 
flung  its  clasping  tendrils.  I  see  the  tall  locusts  before  the 
dwelling,  the  little  garden  opening  from  the  lawn,  the  pas- 
tures in  the  distance,  the  various  forms  of  animal  life  which 
people  the  scene.  Come,  and  let  us  go  into  the  little  garden 
and  see  the  blossoming  trees  and  the  rose  bushes.  Then  we 
will  wander  down  the  oak  grove  behind  the  house  to  the 
spring.  But  see,  on  the  hill  where  the  grove  is  thickest, 
how  profusely  the  dead  autumnal  leaves  lie  scattered.  And 
beneath  them,  in  a  corner  far  removed  from  the  sound  of 
childish  mirth  or  the  hum  of  busy  labor,  are  the  graves  of 
the  family.  There,  side  by  side,  sleep  the  aged  grandfather, 
— a  man  of  God,  gone  to  his  reward — the  father  and  mother, 
the  eldest  and  youngest  of  their  lovely  children — within  six 
months  consigned  to  the  grave.  Consumption  fastened  upon 
that  sweet  blossom  in  early  womanhood — beauty,  accom- 
plishments, earthly  affection  could  not  save  it  from  the  de- 
stroyer— and  the  opening  bud  left  in  a  bleak  world  without 
the  support  of  the  parent  stem  withered  too  and  died  ere  its 
blossoming — withered  ? — ah  no  !  in  all  its  freshness  and 
promise  it  was  transplanted  to  bloom  with  the  dear  ones 
gone  before,  in  the  Paradise  of  God.  Four  orphan  bereaved 
ones  are  still  left  to  mourn.  They  have  clung  together 
through  all  their  trials ;  the  oldest  a  lovely  girl  of  eighteen, 
and  the  youngest  a  little  fairy  of  five  years.  I  see  now  before 
me  that  sweet  innocent  face,  that  gentle  and  artless  smile, 
those  winning  ways  that  so  touched  the  heart  of  the  stran- 
ger. Ye  are  scattered  far  and  wide,  away  from  the  home 
of  your  childhood,  the  hearth  of  your  ancestry — Nay  more  ! 
that  home  must  pass  into  the  hands  of  strangers — and  now 
ye  take  of  the  happy  haunts  of  your  early  years,  of  the 
graves  of  your  kindred,  a  final  farewell. 

Not  long  since  I  received  a  letter  from  Sophia,  in  which 
she  says,  "  I  have  a  favor  to  ask  of  you — write  me  a  '  Fare- 
well to  Woodvale.'  We  are  about  to  part  with  our  dear  sweet 
old  home,  and  I  cannot  leave  it  without  taking  my  farewell 


LEAVES  FROM  THE  NOTE  BOOK  OF  A  GOVERNESS.     25 

in  verse."     I  could  not  do  otherwise  than  comply,  though  I 
felt  inadequate  to  the  task — and  so  I  have  written  a 

FAREWELL     TO     WOODVALE. 

Green  wave  the  oaks  around  thee,  home  beloved, 
Where  oft  in  infancy  our  footsteps  roved  ; 
Bright  glow  the  roseate  clusters  of  the  vine, 
Whose  clinging  tendrils  round  thy  casements  twine  ; 
Sweet  is  the  murmur  of  the  summer  breeze, 
Which  softly  sighs  amid  the  waving  trees ; 
Over  the  green-robed  lawn,  returning  spring 
Shall  bid  the  locusts  their  white  blossoms  fling ; 
Still  shall  the  birds  their  joyous  music  wake, 
From  every  waving  bough,  and  spray,  and  brake ; 
Yet  to  each  shady  nook  and  quiet  dell, 
Sadly  we  bid  a  long  and  last  farewell. 

Farewell,  green  haunts  of  careless  infancy, 
Where  glad  hearts  wandered  forth  with  steps  as  free, 
Ye  are  not  changed  ;  round  each  familiar  spot, 
Cluster  sweet  memories  ne'er  to  be  forgot ; 
The  music  of  loved  voices  still  we  hear, 
Forms  well-remembered  to  our  sight  appear, 
Each  verdant  dell,  green  tree,  and  grassy  knoll, 
Hath  its  own  secret  history  to  the  soul, 
Filling  our  eyes  with  tears,  as  now  to  you 
Beloved  home,  we  bid  a  last  adieu. 

Beneath  the  shadows  of  the  tall  oaks  lying, 

In  quiet  slumber  those  who  loved  us  rest ; 

When  'neath  autumnal  skies  the  foliage  dying, 

Hath  strewn  with  its  bright  leaves  the  green  earth's  breast, 

Mingling  in  music  of  a  happier  sphere, 

No  more  their  voices  fall  on  mortal  ear  ; 

Here  hoary  age  and  helpless  infancy, 

Beside  each  other  in  the  dark  grave  lie. 

In  the  dark  grave !  oh  no !  the  lifeless  clay, 

There  waits  the  summons  of  the  final  day ; 

The  spirits  of  our  lost  ones  dwell  above, 

In  regions  of  eternal  light  and  love. 

Father  in  Heaven  !  oh,  hear  the  orphan's  prayer, 
Grant  them  thy  strength,  life's  future  ills  to  bear, 
Be  thou  their  friend,  their  help  in  years  to  come, 
And  safely  guide  them  to  a  heavenly  home. 


EDITOR'S  TABLE. 

[WE  find  in  a  late  French  periodical,  a  spirited  story,  giving  an  account 
of  a  wedding,  at  which  the  guests  relate  several  laughable  adventures. 
Among  others,  the  grandfather  of  the  bride  gives  the  following  amusing 
account  of  his  own  marriage  in  1785  :] 

"  I  was  fourteen  years  old,  and  was  still  stammering  over  my  Port  Royal 
grammar.  My  tutor  was  a  young  abbe",  who  wrote  very  pretty  madrigals 
and  idyls,  after  the  fashion  of  Madame  Deshsollieres.  I  loved  him  very 
much,  and,  as  he  was  always  pleased  with  his  pupil,  the  pupil  was  always 
satisfied  with  his  master.  One  morning,  the  abbe"  was  explaining  to  me  a 
difficult  rule  in  my  grammar,  when  my  father,  who  had  arrived  from  Paris 
the  evening  before,  entered  our  study.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had 
honored  us  with  such  a  visit.  Had  he  come  to  inform  himself  of  my  pro- 
gress in  Latin]  Teacher  and  pupil  were  in  a  state  of  perplexity.  We 
exchanged  a  rapid  glance,  which  fortunately  was  unnoticed  by  our  visitor. 
The  count,  my  father,  politely  excused  himself  to  my  tutor,  for  interrupting 
his  excellent  lesson,  on  account  of  some  important  business  with  me.  The 
abbe*  withdrew,  and  I  found  myself  alone  with  my  father.  It  was  perhaps 
the  first  time  in  my  life,  and  my  heart  beat  violently.  His  face  was  very 
grave; — was  I  about  to  submit  to  an  examination?  After  a  preamble, 
which  might  as  well  have  been  in  Hebrew,  or  in  Latin,  which  was  about 
the  same  thing  to  me,  my  father  announced  that  it  was  his  intention  to 
have  me married ! 

My  Port  Royal  grammar  fell  from  my  hands,  my  arms  would  have  fallen 
with  it,  if  the  clavicles  had  not  been  strong. 

"  To  marry  me  !  "  I  exclaimed,  "  and  shall  I  study  Latin  afterwards?  " 

"  We  shall  see  about  that." 

"  And  when  shall  you  marry  me?  " 

"  In  three  days."  , 

"  Why  not  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  Because  your  bride  is  still  in  the  convent." 

"  May  I  know  who  she  is?  " 

"  That  does  not  concern  you." 

"  Ah  !  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir." 

The  count,  my  father,  then  delivered  a  long  homily  upon  paternal 
authority  and  filial  submission,  which  I  understood  very  well,  and  a  disser- 
tation upon  the  conjugal  union,  which  I  did  not  understand  at  all. 

All  the  preparations  were  made  without  my  knowledge,  for  even  my 
preceptor  was  not  made  a  confidant  in  the  affair.  They  were  so  good  as  to 
mention  the  name  of  my  future  bride  to  me.  She  was  one  of  my  relatives, 
an  orphan  and  heiress  to  an  immense  fortune.  I  remembered  very  well 
having  played  with  her  and  her  doll,  about  five  years  before.  I  had  not 


EDITOR'S  TABLE.  27 

seen  her  since.     She  had  now  just  entered  her  thirteenth  year.     I  recol 
lected  too,  that  when  we  played  together,  she  was  very  pretty. 

The  great  day  arrived.  The  morning  that  I  was  presented  to  her,  I 
was  perfectly  astonished  ;  she  was  very  well  formed  for  her  age  ;  in  fact 
she  was  quite  a  young  lady,  while  I  appeared  a  mere  child.  My  bride 
paid  very  little  attention  to  me — she  was  much  more  occupied  with  her 
beautiful  toilette  than  with  her  little  husband — a  laughable  husband  truly. 
I  can  see  her  yet,  in  her  grand  costume  of  Chinese  satin,  the  edge  of  which 
disappeared  under  a  wreath  embroidered  with  gold  and  silver  ;  sparkling 
diamonds  mingled  with  the  flowers  of  her  hair ;  diamonds  were  glittering 
in  her  ears,  and  a  river  of  diamonds  was  rolling  over  the  whiteness  of  her 
shoulders.  She  seemed  to  me  a  perfect  fairy — a  vision  from  the  stars.  I 
confess  I  was  dazzled,  bewildered,  with  admiration.  The  celestial  app? 
rition  extended  her  pretty  hand  to  me.  I  tremblingly  took  it,  and  an 
electric  thrill  shot  through  all  my  members.  I  was  told  to  kiss  it,  and  I 
raised  it  to  my  lips  with  confusion.  I  was  beside  myself.  What  I  felt 
was  so  new — so  strange.  To  tell  the  truth,  I  was  very  happy  to  exchange 
my  old  Port  Royal  manual  for  one  so  fresh,  so  brilliant,  gilt-edged  and 
diamond  covered,  and  the  contents  of  which  were  doubtless  so  different 
from  Latin  Syntax. 

However,  it  must  be  acknowledged  that  I  felt  rather  humbled — it  seemed 
to  me  that  my  pretty  cousin  treated  me  very  much  like  a  child.  She  had  a 
certain  patronizing  air,  which  wounded  me  exceedingly.  She  was  much 
larger  than  myself,  and  then  the  long  train  of  her  robe,  the  profusion  of 
lace  floating  around  her,  and  her  high-heeled  shoes  made  her  appear  much 
taller.  She  was  really  a  young  lady,  and  I  was  only  a  school-boy.  I  felt 
this.  And  then  my  grey  velvet  coat  embroidered  with  silver,  my  bouquet, 
my  lace,  the  enormous  ruffles  of  my  neck  and  wrists,  and  my  long  sword, 
the  golden  scabbard  of  which  dangled  about  my  legs  and  impeded  my 
motion,  all  this  paraphernalia  had  the  effect  of  diminishing  my  little  figure 
in  a  ridiculous  manner.  I  was  exceedingly  embarrassed,  and  should  much 
rather  have  played  with  my  cousin's  ball  or  hoop,  she  in  a  simple  frock  and 
flat  shoes,  and  I  in  a  short  jacket,  both  free  in  our  dress  and  enjoyment. 

But  this  was  not  the  end  of  my  tribulations.  I  had  many  others.  The 
greatest  was,  being  escorted  during  the  whole  ceremony  by  a  captain  of 
the  Swiss  guards,  who  was  fully  six  feet  high,  a  true  Goliath,  to  whose 
head  I  should  have  sent  willingly,  a  stone,  I  believe,  had  I  held  the  sling 
of  David.  To  add  to  my  humiliation,  they  were  obliged,  at  the  repast,  to 
pile  pillows  upon  my  chair,  in  order  that  I  might  more  worthily  represent  a 
young  husband. 

Can  it  be  credited,  that  during  the  whole  I  was  unable  to  speak  a  single 
word  to  my  wife,  nor  had  I  the  happiness  of  hearing  a  syllable  from  her. 
They  surrounded  her — feted  her,  and  recited  madrigals  of  every  possible 
measure  to  her.  The  abbe*  (may  God  forgive  him,)  read  a  tedious 
epithalamium  at  the  end  of  the  repast. 

I  hoped  at  least  after  the  wedding-feast  to  have  the  liberty  of  conversing 
a  little  with  my  pretty  bride.  Not  at  all.  We  were  separated  immedi- 


28  EDITOR'S  TABLE. 

ately.  An  old  aunt  of  my  wife's,  the  Marchioness  of  Jonchere,  who 
remembered  that  Louis  XIV.  had  kissed  her  brow  when  she  was  a  child, 
and  who  had  the  honor  of  being  admitted  to  the  intimacy  of  Madame  Pom- 
padour, invited  me  in  the  most  pressing  manner  to  pass  a  few  days  with 
her,  at  her  castle  in  Berry.  My  mother,  on  her  side,  gave  a  similar  invita- 
tion to  her  new  daughter-in-law,  begging  her  to  accompany  her,  to  her 
estate  in  Jaucourt. 

"Au  Revoir,"  said  my  bride  to  me  graciously,  giving  me  to  kiss  for  the 
second  time,  the  pretty  fingers  where  I  had  placed  the  sacramental  ring. 
This  was  the  end  of  my  wedding.  Each  departed  his  own  way.  1  was 
obliged  to  submit  during  the  journey  to  the  whole  history  of  Madame  Pom- 
padour. 

I  did  not  see  my  wife  again  for  three  years.  We  returned  to  our  studies. 
She  to  the  convent,  I  to  the  abbe",  who  taught  me  to  write  madrigals. 
When  I  had  produced  a  very  gallant  one,  without  any  redundancies,  I  was 
rewarded  by  being  allowed  to  send  it  to  my  pretty  countess,  from  whom  I 
received  an  answer,  more  spiritual  than  tender,  in  a  style  as  overstrained 
as  my  poetry. 

The  consecration  of  the  engagement  which  bound  me  for  life,  the  nuptial 
ceremonies,  fetes,  feasts,  compliments,  &c.,  were  all  accompanied  with  so 
many  mortifications  and  disappointments  that,  to  this  day,  I  have  never 
been  sure  that  the  whole  parade  was  not  an  ugly  dream  indelibly  impressed 
on  my  memory.  Whether,  however,  it  was  a  dream  or  reality,  I  am  quite 
certain  that  forty  very  happy  years  have  passed  over  my  countess  and 
myself." 

After  another  hearty  health  to  the  bride,  an  old  bachelor  is  persuaded 
into  telling  a  very  good  ghost  story,  which  we  reserve  for  a  future  number. 


IT  has  been  very  fashionable  for  some  years  past,  for  transatlantic  writers 
to  mourn  over  our  want  of  a  national  literature.  Of  course  our  own  journalists 
have  echoed  the  cry.  We  think  the  following  extract  from  the  last  No. 
of  the  Methodist  Quarterly  Review  a  good  answer  to  these  croakers. 

"  The  history  of  these  new  psychological  and  theological  speculations 
has  been  marked  by  considerable  literary  aspiration.  Their  votaries  have 
declared  that  the  nation  is  growing  up  without  a  national  literature — that 
the  practical  severity  of  our  Saxon  intellect  produced  by  the  influence  of 
Bacon,  Locke,  the  Scotch  philosophers,  and  above  all  by  our  vigorous 
theology,  has  congealed  the  fountains  of  sentiment  and  originality,  and 
prevented  the  development  of  a  national  taste.  Doubtless,  all  wise  efforts 
toward  a  more  characteristic  national  literature  are  desirable  ;  we  hail  them 
•with  the  heartiest  good  wishes ;  but  we  think  time  is  the  chief  necessity. 
Nations  advance  gradually,  as  do  individuals.  Give  us  time,  gentlemen  ; 
we  have  the  germ  in  the  soil,  and  it  will  in  due  season  rise  and  display  its 


EDITOR'S  TABLE.  29 

glories  like  our  native  magnolia.  Bat  forbear  your  hot-house  processes, 
and  especially  keep  away  your  exotics,  which  can  only  sicken  in  our  soil, 
and  shed  malaria  on  our  moral  atmosphere.  Receive  the  word  of  exhorta- 
tion, gentlemen.  Know  ye  not,  that  the  first  condition  of  a  national  litera- 
ture is  that  it  be  a  type  of  the  national  character,  and  that  national  charac- 
ter depends  largely  upon  the  physical  circumstances  of  a  people  ?  And 
that  these,  in  this  land,  are  just  the  reverse  of  the  hair-splitting  philosophy 
and  liquefied  sentimentalism  ye  offer  us?  What  is  this  new  world ?  A 
vast  field  for  tugging  labor  and  practical  arts,  immense  mines  of  metal  and 
fuel,  mountains  of  iron,  rivers  running  from  the  pole  to  the  tropics,  pro- 
digious inland  seas.  And  what  are  the  people  upon  it  ?  What  were  their 
fathers?  Men  who  threw  defiance  at  their  oppressors  in  the  iron  bolts  of 
their  strong  Saxon  speech,  and  confounded  the  conquerors  of  the  world  in 
fields  where  yet  stand  the  stumps  of  the  primal  forests ;  a  race  of  stout- 
hearted fighters,  stout-minded  thinkers,  and  stout-handed  workers,  loving 
liberty,  laboring  for  their  bread,  and  serving  their  God  And  who  are 
their  posterity?  Men  who  are  filling  the  seas  with  ships,  binding  the  land 
in  belts  of  iron,  digging  canals  through  mountains,  and  who — solemnly 
sublime  spectacle — are  marching  with  a  van  line  from  Canada  to  the  Gulf 
of  Mexico,  westward  on  the  falling  forest,  at  the  rate  of  seventeen  miles  a 
year,  rearing  temples,  founding  cities,  and  casting  manfully  the  destinies 
of  the  future. 

"  And  what  does  the  history  of  the  mind  of  this  hardy  race  teach?  It 
has  produced  the  Quadrant,*  the  Steamer,  the  Cotton-gin,  the  Magnetic 
Telegraph,  the  practical  Franklin  in  philosophy,  the  severe  Edwards  in 
theology,  the  erudite  Webster  in  philology,  the  incorruptible  Washington 
in  arms,  the  energetic  Henry  in  eloquence,  the  whole  band  of  clear-headed, 
far-seeing  statesmen  of  the  revolution.  It  has  had  its  artists,  but  all  who 
have  won  a  permanent  fame  except  one  have  shared  the  severity  of  the 
national  taste;  its  Stuart,  and  Healey,  and  Inman,  in  portraiture,  its  West 
and  Trumbull  in  historic  painting.  It  has  produced  but  one  great  romantic 
painter — Allston.  Sculpture  is  the  severest  and  noblest  of  the  fine  arts ; 
it  declines  the  charms  of  coloring,  and  its  stern  beauties  inhere  only  in  the 
solid  stone  :  our  land  has  just  placed  one  of  her  sons  at  the  head  of  the  art, 
and  has  placed  others  of  her  children  hard  by  him. 

"  Such  a  people  must  have  a  literature  vigorous,  strenuous,  manly. 
You  must  alter  their  land  and  the  texture  of  their  brain  before  you  can  take 
from  them  their  strong  Saxon  speech,  or  their  robust  common  sense,  and 
you  must  liquefy  their  hearts  before  they  will  cast  away,  as  obsolete,  that 
old  volume,  the  truths  of  which  their  fathers  believed  as  utterances  from 
heaven,  and  under  the  sanctions  of  which  they  fought  the  battles  of  their 
liberty,  and  laid  the  foundations  of  their  country. 

"  This  is  the  land  and  such  the  people  for  whom  you  would  create  a  phi- 
losophy and  a  literature.  They  have  shown  themselves  capable  of  any- 
thing great ;  but  nothing  does  their  history  more  fully  demonstrate,  than 

*  Hadley's  Quadrant  was  invented  by  Godfrey  of  Pennsylvania. 


30  EDITOR'S  TABLE. 

the  impossibility  of  grafting  on  their  sturdy  intellectual  growth  the  imported 
follies  which  you  offer  them.  The  men  who  would  become  their  literary 
leaders  must  be  intellectual  athletae  ;  must  study  their  stupendous  scenery, 
their  energetic  life,  and  reflect  in  their  writings  their  strenuous  traits." 


To  CORRESPONDENTS. — When  will  Sinclair  redeem  his  promise?  \Ve 
are  impatient  for  those  "  Recollections." 

Where  are  our  friends  E.  0.  and  K.  ?  Shall  we  not  hear  from  them 
soon? 

The  Prize  of  Virtue  will  appear  in  our  next  No. 

For  the  historical  facts,  upon  which  the  sketch  in  our  last  No.  was 
founded,  entitled  "  The  Thread-maker  of  Lesbos,"  see  Gibbon's  Decline 
and  Fall,  pp.  294,  295. 


BOOK   NOTICES. 

IF  any  of  our  readers  are  trying  to  decide  upon  some  suitable  gift-book 
for  a  juvenile  friend,  we  have  a  word  of  advice  to  give  them — Waite, 
Peirce  &  Co.,  No.  1  Cornhill,  have  lately  issued  the  first  of  a  series  of 
Madame  Guizot's  works.  The  present  neatly  got  up  volume  is  entitled 
"  The  Little  Robbers  and  other  Tales,"  and  is  translated  with  admirable 
spirit  and  vivacity  by  Miss  ANNE  T.  WILBUR,  of  South  Woburn.  The 
best  recommendation  the  book  can  have  is  the  varying  expression  of  a 
child's  face  while  reading  it. 

The  New  England  Sabbath  School  Union  has  lately  issued  "  The 
Fisherman's  Boat,  or  Lessons  of  Kindness — from  the  German."  It  is  an 
exceedingly  interesting  story,  and  is  said  to  be  "a  recital  of  veritable 
facts."  The  translator  states  that  it  is  submitted  "  to  her  young  readers 
without  a  doubt  that  its  simple  beauties  will  render  it  one  of  their  most 
entertaining  books,  while  the  lessons  it  teaches  can  scarcely  fail  to  improve 
their  hearts."  79  Cornhill. 

We  presume  many  of  our  readers  remember  a  very  beautiful  piece  of 
poetry  which  "  went  the  rounds"  of  most  of  the  religious  papers  in  No- 
vember last,  entitled  "  The  Burial  of  Mrs.  Judson  at  St.  Helena,"  by  H. 
S.  Washburn,  Esq.  Our  musical  friends  will  be  glad  to  know  that  it  is 
set  to  most  appropriate  music  by  S.  Heath,  the  symphonies  and  accompa- 
niments by  George  Hews.  Published  and  for  sale  by  Oliver  Ditson,  115 
Washington  street. 

"  The  Judson  Offering  "  has  been  received  and  will  be  noticed  in  our 
next. 


YOU  ARE  VERY  LOVELY,  LADY! 

MUSIC   COMPOSED   FOR   THE   MAGNOLIA, 
BY  I.  N.  METCALF. 


EZS=*E=«N 


^= 


You  are  very    love-Iy,  lady, 


zr^zbz^z:      :z£z: 


"  b „  ,.  ai-^-i 


I^- 


Soft  and  fair  your  skin  ;  Beauty's  pencil  has  been  there, 

izbzzzzz:     :zzzzizzzz 


32 


MUSIC YOU  ARE  VERY  LOVELY 


Blending  colors     fresh  and  rare;        Is  all  fair  with-in  ? 

izfezizzzTIz: 


_ — - — _.__- 
1 — I 1— f-i 1— i \~+»-r- 

1 1 1— i— I 1 — I L_. L| — I — 


Yes!  that  blush, with  modest  glow, Sweetly  tells  what  I  would  know. 


You  are  very  gentle,  lady ! 

Humble  and  discreet ; 

Let  not  words  of  artless  praise 

Kindle  anger  in  your  gaze. 

Praise  is  not  unmeet, 

When  the  lip  of  truth  doth  find 

Language  for  the  approving  mind. 

You  are  very  dear,  sweet  lady  ; 

Will  you  hear  my  suit? 

Honest  is  my  love,  and  pure, 

Lasting  while  my  days  endure  ; 

Why  are  you  so  mute? 

Ah  !  you  smile,  and  blush,  and  sigh- 

I  do  ask  no  more  reply. 


THE  SALE  OF  THE  PET  LAMB.  33 


THE  SALE  OF  THE  PET  LAMB. 

BY  MARY  HOWITT. 

[See  Frontispiece.] 

Oh  !  paverty  is  a  weary  thing  ;  'tis  full  of  grief  and  pain, 

It  boweth  down  the  heart  of  man  and  dulls  his  cunning  brain  ; 

It  maketh  even  the  little  child  with  heavy  sighs  complain  ! 

The  children  of  the  rich  man  have  not  their  bread  to  win ; 
They  hardly  know  how  labor  is  the  penalty  of  sin ; 
Even  as  the  lilies  of  the  field,  they  neither  toil  nor  spin. 

And  year  by  year,  as  life  wears  on,  no  wants  have  they  to  bear ; 
In  all  the  luxury  of  the  earth  they  have  abundant  share  ; 
They  walk  among  life's  pleasant  ways,  and  never  know  a  care. 

The  children  of  the  poor  man — though  they  be  young,  each  one, 

Early  in  the  morning  they  rise  up  before  the  sun, 

And  scarcely  when  the  sun  is  set  their  daily  task  is  done. 

Few  things  have  they  to  call  their  own,  to  fill  their  hearts  with  pride, 
The  sunshine  of  the  summer's  day,  the  flowers  on  the  highway  side, 
Or  their  own  free  companionship,  on  the  heathy  common  wide. 

Hunger  and  cold,  and  weariness — these  are  a  frightful  three ; 
But  another  curse  there  is  beside  that  darkens  poverty  : 
It  may  not  have  one  thing  to  love,  how  small  soe'er  it  be. 

A  thousand  flocks  were  on  the  hills — a  thousand  flocks  and  more — 
Feeding  in  sunshine  pleasantly,  they  were  the  rich  man's  store ; 
There  was  the  while,  one  little  lamb,  beside  a  cottage  door : 

A  little  lamb  that  did  lie  down  with  the  children  'neath  the  tree — 
That  ate,  meek  creature,  from  their  hands,  and  nestled  to  their  knee ; 
That  had  a  place  within  their  hearts,  as  one  of  the  family. 

But  want,  even  as  an  armed  man,  came  down  upon  their  shed; 
The  father  labored  all  day  long,  that  his  children  might  be  fed, 
And  one  by  one  their  household  things  were  sold,  to  buy  them  bread. 

That  father,  with  a  down-cast  eye,  upon  his  threshold  stood, 
Gaunt  poverty  each  pleasant  thought  had  in  his  heart  subdued ; 
"  What  is  the  creature's  life  to  us  ?"  said  he,  "  'twill- buy  us  food." 

"  Ay,  though  the  children  weep  all  day,  and  with  down-drooping  head, 
Each  does  his  small  craft  mournfully ! — the  hungry  must  be  fed; 
And  that  which  has  a  price  to  bring,  must  go  to  buy  us  bread  !" 
VOL.  II.  3 


34  SKETCHES  OF  AMERICAN  SCENERY. 

It  went — oh  !  parting  has  a  pang  the  hardest  heart  to  wring; 
But  the  tender  soul  of  a  little  child  with  fervent  love  dolh  cling, 
"With  love  that  hath  no  feignings  false,  unto  each  gentle  thing  ! 

Therefore  most  sorrowful  it  was  those  children  small,  to  see, 
Most  sorrowful  to  hear  them  plead  for  their  pet  so  piteously  ; 
"  Oh  !  mother  dear,  it  loveth  us  ;  and  what  besides  have  we  ?" 

"Let's  take  him  to  the  broad,  green  hills,"  in  his  impotent  despair, 
Said  one  strong  boy;  "let's  take  him  off — the  hills  are  wide  and  far; 
I  know  a  little  hiding-place,  and  we  will  keep  him  there  !" 

'T  was  vain  !  they  took  the  little  lamb,  and  straightway  tied  him  down, 
With  a  strong  cord  they  tied  him  fast;  and  o'er  the  common  brown, 
And  o'er  the  hot  and  flinty  roads,  they  took  him  to  the  town. 

The  little  children  through  that  day,  and  throughout  all  the  morrow, 
From  every  thing  about  the  house  a  mournful  thought  did  borrow; 
The  very  bread  they  had  to  eat  was  food  unto  their  sorrow ! 

Oh  !  poverty  is  a  weary  thing,  'tis  full  of  grief  and  pain  ; 
It  keepeth  down  the  soul  of  man  as  with  an  iron  chain; 
It  maketh  even  the  little  child,  with  heavy  sighs  complain. 


For  the  Magnolia. 

SKETCHES   OF   AMERICAN  SCENERY. 

VISIT  TO  NIAGARA. 

First  view  of  the  Falls— The  Rapids— The  Horseshoe  Falls— The  Cave 
of  the  Winds— The  American  Falls — The  Ferry — View  from  Table 
Rock — Scenery  about  Niagara. 

THE  three  days  ending  with  the  twelfth  of  August,  1844, 
are  marked  with  red  letters  and  white  stones  in  our  memory. 
We  recall  them  with  delicious  reveries  and  vivid  recollections 
of  Niagara,  .the  most  glorious  sight  we  have  ever  seen  or  yet 
expect  to  see.  Never  will  the  sabbath  spent  in  that  great 
temple  of  Nature,  be  forgotten. 

The  following  letter  to  a  beloved  friend,  attempted  some 


SKETCHES  OF  AMERICAN  SCENERY.  35 

description  of  its  effects  upon  the  feelings.  Niagara  can 
never  be  described. 

MY  DEAR  M ,  I  have  arrived  at  the  ultima  thuk  of 

sight-seeing,  for  I  have  looked  upon  Niagara* — the  "  Sove- 
reign of  the  world  of  floods."  I  had  been  cautioned  not  to 
have  my  expectations  raised  too  high,  lest  they  should  be 
disappointed ;  but  my  first  view  of  Niagara  brought  with  it  a 
consciousness  which  can  never  leave  me,  that  earth  had  noth- 
ing to  offer  to  the  sight  which  will  not 

"  Grow  dim  beneath  the  splendor  of  that  glorious  watery  throne." 

I  had  read  eagerly  every  description  of  it  in  poetry  and  prose, 
I  had  studied  it  from  paintings,  I  had  tasked  my  imagination 
to  the  utmost  for  a  conception  of  it ;  but  when  I  really  looked 
upon  it,  my  amazememt  was  only  equalled  by  my  admiration. 
I  shall  never  forget  my  first  sight  of  these  wonderful  wa- 
ters ;  it  was  from  the  cars,  about  two  miles  north  of  the  Falls, 
at  Belle  vue  de  la  cataract,  which,  as  the  name  imports,  com- 
mands a  fine  prospect,  indeed,  the  only  distant  one  to  be  ob- 
tained.    The  railroad  for  some  distance  is  on  the  steep  bank 
of  Niagara  river,  which  is  entirely  hid  by  the  tall  trees,  grow- 
ing so  thickly  on  its  very  verge,  as  to  shut  out  even  glimpses 
of  the  opposite  bank.     At  this  place,  (Belle-vue)  we  emerged 
from  the  dense  foliage,  and  obtained  a  sight  of  the  river  wind- 
ing its  way  between  the  steep  banks.     Its  color  is  precisely 
that  of  polished  green  jasper,  variegated  with  veins  of  the 
whitest  foam.     Next,  a  cloud  of  pearly  mist  floating  in  the 
distance,  and  flashing  in  the  sunlight,  attracted  every  eye — 
and  then — all  Niagara  was  before  us.     My  heart  leaped  up 
to  meet  it,  and  there  it  is  enshrined  forever ;  but  no  earthly 
language  can   describe   the  picture  it  preserves.     The  sky 
above,  the  rising  mist  mingling  with  the  very  clouds,  the  rush- 
ing waters  which  you  can  scarcely  convince  yourself  have  not 
just  broken  loose  from  gigantic  confines,  seeming,  between 

*  This  word,  according  to  the  late  Col.  Stone,  the  well-known  Indian  antiquarian,  is  pro- 
nounced by  the  aborigines  with  the  accent  on  the  third  syllable— the  a  broad  and  open. 


36  SKETCHES  OF  AMERICAN  SCENERY. 

the  clouds  above,  and  the  mist  beneath,  to  be  hung  mid-hea- 
ven. It  was  like  a  vision  of  another  world,  so  suddenly  it 
burst  upon  us,  so  wonderfully  glorious,  so  quickly  was  it  gone. 
"  Beautiful !"  broke  from  every  lip,  and  the  number  of  pas- 
sengers in  the  cars  swelled  it  almost  to  a  shout. 

Upon  our  arrival,  I,  who  am  a  perfect  gourmand  in  such 
matters,  was  for  rushing  to  see  the  rush  ;  but  one  of  our  party 
who  had  visited  it  before — a  tyrannical  amateur,  undertook 
the  regulation  of  my  ecstasies,  by  forming  a  climax  of  views, 
and  to  this  arrangement  (which  proved  to  be  the  best)  I  was 
obliged  to  submit. 

Keeping  aloof,  then,  from  the  edge  of  the  river,  which 
above  the  Falls  is  nearly  level  with  the  banks,  we  pursued 
our  way  towards  the  commencement  of  the  rapids,  perhaps 
half  a  mile  above  the  cataract.  The  actual  descent  of  water 
in  this  distance  is  forty  feet,  forming  an  inclined  plane  ;  the 
surface  is  broken  into  beautiful  and  irregular  cascades ;  bil- 
low-kissed rocks  are  interspersed  at  unequal  distances  nearly 
across  the  river,  and  the  white-crested,  up-lifting  waves  are 
tossing  and  tumbling  in  tumultuous  glee.  This  is  in  itself  a 
scene  of  surpassing  beauty.  Somebody,  I  think  Willis,  speak- 
ing of  water,  says,  "  it  is  the  gladdest  thing  under  heaven." 
Here  the  waves  are  dancing,  leaping,  gambolling,  caressing, 
apparently  frantic  with  joy  at  their  expected  journey  to  the 
ocean.  The  rush,  the  whirl,  the  plunge,  the  splash,  the  dash, 
the  shouting,  the  roaring  of  the  waters  before  you,  with  the 
heavy  thundering  of  the  great  Fall,  heard  beyond  and  below, 
all,  makes  the  heart  beat  high,  and  the  blood  course  rapidly 
in  the  veins.  We  stopped  under  the  shade  of  a  large  tree, 
to  revel  in  this  boisterous  scene.  A  few  feet  beyond  us,  on 
some  rocks,  around  which  the  waters  were  playing  in  com- 
parative quiet,  stood  an  Indian  with  his  fishing  line,  his  long 
hair  streaming  on  the  breeze  ;  reclining  on  the  bank  behind 
him,  was  his  boy,  with  a  basket  ready  to  receive  the  delicate 
treasures  of  the  deep.  This  was  the  finishing  touch  in  the 
picturesque  scene  before  us.  Numbers  of  thesq  children  of 
the  forest,  relics  of  the  once  powerful  Six  Nations,  are  found 


SKETCHES  OF  AMERICAN  SCENEBY.  37 

strolling  about  the  place,  offering  their  gay  manufactures  to 
the  visitors.  They  have  quite  a  tract  of  land  ten  or  twelve 
miles  from  the  Falls,  known  as  the  Indian  Reservation,  where 
they  live  in  a  state  of  considerable  comfort  and  civilization. 
The  part  of  it  bordering  on  the  railroad,  through  which  we 
passed,  looked  quite  thriving.  Their  grounds  were  well 
fenced,  their  fields  looked  flourishing,  and  their  buildings 
were  not  inferior  to  many  inhabited  by  the  pale  faces  in  some 
of  the  interior  towns. 

But  notwithstanding  the  beauty  of  the  scenery  before  us,  I 
was  impatient  for  the  grand  view.  Following  the  rapids  as 
far  as  the  bridge  which  crosses  them,  in  the  midst  of  their 
wild  excitement,  leading  to  Bath  Island,  the  rush,  and  roar, 
and  plunge  increasing  at  every  step,  we  pursued  our  way  from 
thence,  across  another  bridge,  leading  to  Iris,  formerly  Goat 
Island.  This  island,  which  is  thrown  into  the  river,  precisely 
at  the  head  of  the  precipice  over  which  the  waters  rush,  forms 
the  only  division  to  the  Falls,  which  would  otherwise  be  one 
stupendous  sheet  of  water.  Proceeding  through  a  pleasant 
grove  of  the  island,  we  began  to"  emerge  into  a  more  open 
space ;  and  here  I  was  per  force  obliged  by  our  epicurean 
conductor,  to  be  led  a  short  distance  with  closed  eyes.  When 
allowed  to  open  them,  what  a  sight  was  before  me  !  The 
whole  stretch  of  the  Horseshoe  Falls  was  a  few  rods  in  ad- 
vance. I  bounded  forward,  clapping  my  hands,  and  nothing 
could  express  my  swelling  emotions,  but  the  word  "  glorious" 
shouted  at  the  very  top  of  my  voice.  In  a  few  minutes  we 
had  descended  the  path  on  the  side  of  the  bank,  crossed  the 
Terrapin  bridge,  under  which  the  waters  are  boiling  and 
foaming,  and  were  standing  in  Prospect  tower,  within  a  few 
feet,  indeed,  almost  overlooking  this  immense  mass  of  water. 
No  words  can  describe  the  slow  and  stately  march — the  ma- 
jestic plunge  of  the  river  over  this  precipice.  Perhaps  some 
very  faint  idea  may  be  formed,  by  imagining  as  well  as  one 
can,  a  body  of  water  114  rods  in  width,  158  feet  in  height, 
and  20  feet  deep  at  the  very  verge  of  the  precipice,  over 
which  it  is  constantly  pouring.  Along  the  edge  of  the  steep, 


38  SKETCHES  OF  AMERICAN  SCENERY. 

the  water  is  the  purest  emerald  green ;  but  as  it  descends, 
the  sheet  seems  to  unfold  itself,  disclosing  masses  of  pearly 
foam,  which  mingle  in  the  plunge,  and  all  are  lost  to  sight  in 
the  ever-ascending  mist  which  veils  the  base.  When  it  emer- 
ges from  this  incense-like  cloud,  the  water  for  some  distance 
has  the  appearance  of  molten  silver,  so  perfectly  unbroken  is 
its  brilliant  whiteness. 

Our  next  view  was  after  descending  the  Biddle  stairs,  pur- 
suing the  path  to  the  left,  directly  under  an  overhanging  preci- 
pice leading  to  the  base  of  the  commencement  of  the  Horse- 
shoe Falls.  In  the  midst  of  a  perfect  shower  of  spray,  which 
seemed  to  me  like  a  rebaptism,  I  stood  in  silent  awe  listening 
to  the  voice  of  "  deep  calling  unto  deep."  I  could  have  stood 
there  for  hours,  for  it  seemed  enchanted  ground,  rivetting  my 
feet  to  the  spot.  The  path  in  the  opposite  direction  (the 
other  side  of  the  stairs)  led  us  to  the  foot  of  the  central,  prop- 
erly a  part  of  the  American  Fall.  Behind  this  sheet  of  water 
is  the  Cave  of  the  Winds.  It  is  said  to  be  about  eighty  feet 
in  length  by  sixty  in  breadth.  It  has  been  considered  inac- 
cessible, but  may  now  be  visited  by  means  of  steps,  which 
have  been  lately  cut  in  the  rocks  leading  to  it.  The  winds 
were  literally  howling  in  this  chasm,  the  spray  was  whirled 
and  driven  at  their  mercy ;  but  floating  on  its  bosom,  like  an 
opal  necklace,  a  beautiful  rainbow  advanced  or  receded  as  it 
was  swayed  by  the  furious  blast.  The  noise  of  the  Fall  at 
this  place  is  perfectly  deafening.  At  its  very  foot,  a  large 
rock  lifts  itself,  as  if  defying  its  fury,  and  upon  this  the  waters 
dash  and  break  in  maddened  rage,  and  with  a  noise  louder 
than  bursting  thunderbolts.  The  path  to  this  Fall,  is  directly 
under  a  projecting  cliff,  fearful  to  look  at.  The  sides  and 
verge  are  covered  with  large  stones,  which  seem  to  need  but 
a  breath  to  loosen  them  from  their  cavities.  Precisely  at  this 
point,  an  unfortunate  young  physician,  Dr.  Hungerford,  of 
West  Troy,  was  killed,  some  years  since,  by  the  earth  and 
rocks  falling  from  above. 

We  returned  from  the  island,  less  fatigued  with  the  exer- 
cise we  had  taken,  than  with  the  grand  idea  which 


SKETCHES  OF  AMERICAN   SCENERY.  39 

"First  dazzles,  then  enraptures,  then  o'erawes  the  aching  sight." 

This  was  enough  for  one  day.  I  went  to  sleep  that  night 
with  strange  emotions.  The  windows  of  my  room  were  rat- 
tling to  the  ever-swelling  roar  of  the  Falls.  Confused  images 
of  mist,  and  foam,  and  rocks,  and  rushing  waters  were  before 
my  eyes,  and  my  dreams  were  a  repetition  of  the  scenes  of 
the  day.  I  awoke  many  times  in  the  night,  to  listen  to  the 
same  rush,  and  roar,  and  rattle.  In  the  morning  the  same 
music  met  my  ears,  and  I  sprang  up  full  of  excitement  in  the 
expected  adventures  of  the  day. 

A  short  walk  brought  us  to  the  stairs,  which  descend  the 
bank  of  the  main  shore,  conducting  to  the  ferry.  Here  we 
climbed  along  the  rocks,  in  the  face  of  a  drenching  spray,  as 
near  the  base  of  the  American  Falls  as  we  could  venture  ; 
and  perhaps  from  this  point,  as  good  an  idea  of  their  height 
may  be  obtained,  as  from  any  other.  The  idea  so  often  men- 
tioned, of  a  river  pouring  from  the  clouds,  does  not  seem  like 
illusion  here,  for  you  see  nothing  above  you  but  sky  and 
water.  To  take  in  the  whole  extent  of  the  American  Falls, 
you  must  look  upwards  164  feet,  and  they  are  56  rods  in 
width ;  not  quite  half  as  wide  as  the  Canada  or  Horseshoe 
Falls,  and  on  this  account  their  height  is  better  appreciated. 

While  waiting  a  few  moments  for  the  ferryman,  a  beauti- 
ful rainbow  was  seen  floating  on  the  mist,  now  at  the  foot  of 
the  Falls,  now  rising  with  it  to  the  clouds,  but  growing  every 
moment  more  and  more  vivid,  it  stretched  itself  from  bank  to 
bank,  and  spanned  the  river,  a  perfect  crescent,  like  a  halo  of 
glory.  I  never  saw  any  thing  half  so  beautiful  as  the  scene 
presented  at  that  moment.  My  eyes  filled  with  tears  of  un- 
controllable delight — the  natural,  and  almost  only  means  of 
venting  the  strong  emotions  of  a  woman's  nature. 

The  ferry  crosses  the  river  a  few  rods  below  the  Falls. 
The  water  is  250  feet  in  depth  at  this  place.  The  ferry  is 
said  to  be  perfectly  safe,  and  I  believe  no  accident  has  ever 
occurred  j  but  the  boat  seems  such  a  tiny  thing,  as  it  mounts 
the  foam-crested  wave,  and  sinks  into  the  green  abyss — and 
the  oarsman  pulls  so  lustily  against  the  rushing  current — and 


40  SKETCHES  OF  AMERICAN  SCENERY. 

the  idea  of  the  depth  of  water  beneath  you,  is  not  particularly 
comfortable  as  you  are  tossed  on  the  "  bounding  billows." 
However,  we  were  safely  landed  on  the  shores  of  her  Majesty, 
and  in  a  few  minutes  found  ourselves  on  Table  Rock.  Large 
portions  of  this  rock  have  occasionally  fallen  off,  within  the 
memory  of  those  living  in  the  neighborhood  ;  but  points  of  it 
are  said  to  project  50  or  60  feet.  A  large  fissure  in  it,  ex- 
tending several  feet,  has  been  observed  for  many  years,  and 
undoubtedly  this  part  of  it  will  sooner  or  later  be  detached 
from  the  main  body.  But  visitors  walk  to  the  edge  of  it 
quite  fearlessly.  I  plucked  a  little  smiling-looking  flower 
from  the  very  brink ;  indeed  my  woman's  heart  seemed  to 
grow  brave  amid  the  grand  and  tumultuous  excitement  about 
me,  and  I  felt  a  strange  and  entirely  new-born  passion  for 
climbing  into  all  possible  positions  of  difficulty  and  peril,  my 
heart  beating  high  the  while,  and  swelling  to  grasp  the  stu- 
pendous sublimity  of  the  scene. 

Descending  a  flight  of  steps,  and  passing  along  a  narrow 
pathway,  directly  under  the  projecting  rock  on  which  we  had 
stood,  brought  us  to  the  grand  climactric  view.  All  the  wa- 
ters of  these  great  inland  seas,  the  lakes  Huron,  Michigan, 
Superior  and  Erie  seemed  at  that  very  moment  passing  in 
measured  and  majestic  roll  over  the  precipice.  The  spray 
was  literally  beating  upon  us  -,  the  deafening  "  voice  of  many 
waters,"  united  with  the  "  noise  of  a  rushing  mighty  wind," 
was  thundering  and  roaring  in  our  ears  ;  darkness,  and  black- 
ness, and  maddened  foam,  and  rushing  mist,  and  yawning 
precipices,  and  overhanging  cliffs  were  all  before  us ;  every 
step  seemed  more  terrific,  yet  all  impelled  us  onwards,  till  we 
could  go  no  farther.  We  were  at  the  entrance  of  the  dread- 
ful passage,  which  conducts  150  feet  behind  this  immense 
sheet  of  water.  I  would  gladly  have  entered,  for  I  felt  brave 
enough  for  any  thing  at  that  moment ;  but  my  conductor  was 
inexorable,  and,  shaking  from  head  to  foot  with  the  terrible 
sublimity  of  the  scene,  we  gave  a  last  look  into  that  awful 
opening.  A  few  moments  after,  I  was  reclining  again  on 
Table  Rock,  exhausted,  overwhelmed  and  almost  sobbing 
with  uncontrollable  emotion. 


SKETCHES  OF  AMERICAN  SCENERY.  «41 

But  Niagara  must  be  seen  and  studied,  to  be  appreciated. 
No  words  can  give  the  least  conception  of  it.  I  never  felt  so 
much  the  utter  powerlessness  of  even  the  nervous  Anglo- 
Saxon.  A  new  language  should  be  invented  to  describe  it 
full  of  "  words  of  thundering  sound."  You  may  have  applied 
the  adjectives  beautiful  and  magnificent  to  the  sunset ;  you 
may  have  called  a  thunder-storm  awful  and  sublime ;  you 
may  have  looked  down  cliffs  which  were  terrific;  but  all  the 
sunsets  since  the  creation  scarcely  equal  Niagara  in  beauty ; 
the  storms  of  all  time  cannot  excel  it  in  sublimity,  and  the 
perilous  steeps  of  all  countries,  would  fail  to  give  you  an  idea 
so  overwhelmingly  terrific,  as  one  glance  into  that  frightful 
passage  behind  the  Canada  Falls. 

The  country  about  Niagara  is  full  of  interest.  There  are 
several  mineral  springs  in  the  vicinity  ;  one  called  the  Burn- 
ing Spring,  emitting  an  inflammable  gas.  The  whirlpool, 
about  three  miles  below  the  Falls,  is  much  visited  on  account 
of  the  singular  motion  of  the  waters,  which  first  strike  the 
Canada  shore,  rush  to  the  American  side,  and  are  then  kept 
whirling  about  in  the  innumerable  vortices  formed  by  this 
terrible  commotion.  The  DeviVs  Hole,  a  frightful  chasm,  a 
mile  beyond  the  latter  place,  was  the  scene  of  a  dreadful 
battle  between  the  English  and  the  Indians  employed  by  the 
French.  A  small  stream  running  through  this  .ravine,  has 
since  borne  the  name  of  the  Bloody  Run.  The  battles  of 
Chippewa  and  Lundy's  Lane  were  also  fought  within  the 
sound  of  Niagara's  thunder.  There  is  an  island  near  the 
Canada  shore,  above  the  Falls,  called  Gull  Island,  never  yet 
touched  by  a  human  foot.  You  cannot  imagine  the  mysteri- 
ous interest  associated  with  this  spot  in  my  mind. 

Brock's  dilapidated  monument  may  be  seen  in  the  distance, 
from  some  points,  as  disgraceful  to  our  national  character,  as 
are  the  numerous  manufactories  erected  on  the  American 
banks  of  the  river.  The  idea  of  setting  Niagara  to  work  to 
turn  wheels  and  keep  machinery  in  motion,  seems  like  con- 
fining genius  in  a  treadmill.  I  felt  that  it  would  be  scarcely 
criminal  to  put  the  incendiary's  torch  to  these  disgraceful 


42  SKETCHES  OF  AMERICAN  SCENERY. 

buildings.     It  should  all  be  sacred  ground,  for  nature  has 
consecrated  it ;  't  is  her  Holiest  of  Holies. 

"  Whoe'er  has  seen  thine  incense  rise,  or  heard  thy  torrents  roar, 
Must  have  bent  before  the  God  of  all,  to  worship  and  adore, 
For,  if  the  ocean  be  as  nought  in  the  hollow  of  His  hand, 
And  the  stars  of  the  bright  firmament,  in  His  balance,  grains  of  sand, — 
If  .Niagara's  rolling  flood  seem  great  to  us  who  lowly  bow, 

0  !  Great  Creator  of  the  whole,  how  passing  great  art  thou!" 

1  copied  the  following  from  the  note-book  of  one  of  our 
party.     You  will  have  no  difficulty  in  recognizing  the  author. 

'  "  Dread  water  of  the  North  !  what  bard 

Can  sing  thine  awful  majesty?     Thy  voice 
Of  many  waters  is  thy  muse,  and  it 
From  age  to  age,  doth  utter  to  the  world 
Its  minstrelsy  of  thunder,  singing  thee 
Unequalled  and  alone,  God's  grandest  work  ! 
Thou  art  the  fane  of  waters,  from  afar 
The  rivers  and  the  Northern  seas  roll  on 
Their  floods  to  join  thy  mighty  chorus  loud, 
And  catching  now  the  nearing  sound,  their  waves 
Lift  up  their  heads  and  shake  their  foamy  crests, 
And  rush  like  war-horse  at  the  trumpet's  blast. 
Unceasing  clouds  of  mist  thine  incense,  all 
That  mingle  with  the  skies.     Thou  art  the  sum 
Of  all  sublimity  ;  nor  ocean's  surge 
That  mounts  upon  the  hurricane  and  falls 
From  midst  the  clouds,  is  like  unto  thy  plunge, 
Thy  dread,  thy  deep,  thy  never-ending  plunge  ! 
Nor  ocean's  voice,  that  groans  from  shore  to  shore, 
Resounds  like  thine,  thy  voice  that  never  ceased 
In  day  or  night,  in  storm  or  calm,  since  God 
Rolled  back  the  waters  of  the  flood,  nor  shall, 
For  thou,  great  organ  of  the  universe, 
Shalt  still  send  up  thy  volum'd  notes  on  high, 
And  only  cease  when  heaven  and  earth  shall  flee  ! 
In  ages  yet  to  come,  the  pilgrim  feet 
Of  Nature's  children,  ardent  with  her  love, 
Shall  tread  thy  sacred  precincts,  for  with  thee 
Is  inspiration,  such  as  earth  has  not 
Among  her  waves  or  on  her  Alpine  heights, 
And  such  as  fills  the  eye  with  tears,  the  heart 
With  trembling  awe,  and  yet  with  joy  !" 

As  ever,  yours.         M . 


THE  HAPPY  DAY. 


43 


For  the  Magnolia. 

THE  HAPPY  DAY. 

MOTHER.     How  have  you  passed  the  long  day,  Annie  ? 
You  have  been  gone  since  the  rise  of  sun ; 
Sit  you  down  at  my  feet  and  tell  me 
What  you  have  seen,  dear,  what  you  have  done. 

ANNIE.         Oh,  I  could  never,  never  tell  you 

All  that  I  found  to  see  and  to  do, 
Nor  remember  one  half  the  stories 

That  came  to  me  as  the  west  wind  blew. 

Pleasant  stories  they  were,  dear  mother, 
All  about  fairies  and  wild  woodmen, 

And  one  of  you  and  poor  cousin  Willy, 
That  seemed  as  if  he  were  alive  again. 

I  had  never  heard  them,  my  mother, 
No  one  had  told  those  stories  to  me ; 

But  they  came  as  the  color  comes  to  the  river, 
Or  the  broad,  dark  leaves  to  the  walnut  tree. 

MOTHER.     Then  you  have  been  alone,  my  Annie, 

And  not  with  your  cousins  hard  at  play  ; 
But  tell  me  more,  my  gentle  daughter, 
Of  this,  your  beautiful  holiday. 

ANNIE.         Nay  I  was  not  alone,  dear  mother, 

For  I  stayed  two  hours  with  Elsie  Glen; 
I  swept  her  floor  and  I  set  her  dinner, 
And  sang  the  song  of  the  "  Lonely  Wren." 

Next  I  went  to  the  willow  meadow 

To  watch  how  the  golden  cowslips  grow, 

But  there  1  saw  a  poor  wounded  robin, 
Bleeding  and  limping  along  so  slow. 

See  the  stain  on  my  bosom,  mother, 
I  took  the  robin  and  layed  him  there, 

Till  in  the  brook  in  willow  meadow 

I  bathed  his  wound  with  tenderest  care. 

Oh,  I  was  happy — happy,  mother; 

He  was  soon  able  to  fly  again, 
And  I  dare  say  has  quite  forgotten 

All  about  me  and  his  morning's  pain. 


44  THE   HAPPY  DAY. 

Then  I  went  to  the  wood,  dear  mother, 
And  thought  I  would  find  a  shady  bower, 

Where  to  sing  till  some  woodland  fairy 

Should  bring  up  gifts  wrought  by  fairy  power. 

1  had  scarce  found  a  bower,  my  mother, 

Where  the  vines  hung  from  a  white  oak  tree, 

When  I  heard  a  woman  sigh  and  moan 
Quite  near — oh,  she  moaned  piteously  ! 

Then  she  called  as  to  some  one  missing, 
But  her  words  I  could  not  understand  ; 

Or  if  she  wept  for  friends  in  heaven,  . 
Or  for  those  far  in  a  foreign  land. 

But  still  she  shouted  "  Lilla,  Lilla  !" 

And  she  wrung  her  hands  and  looked  around, 

And  then,  as  if  quite  weak  from  sorrow, 

She  threw  herself  on  the  rough,  hard  ground. 

• 
I  crept  gently  up  to  her,  mother, 

And  I  layed  my  hand  upon  her  arm, 
And  spoke  as  soft  as  I  could,  dear  mother, 
For  fear  my  voice  should  give  her  alarm. 

Then  she  turned  and  she  clasped  my  fingers, 
And  looked  at  me  with  an  eager  look, 

And  waved  her  hand  to  the  wood  and  then 
The  way  that  leads  to  the  willow  brook, 

And  called  again,  "  Oh,  Lilla,  Lilla  !" 
And  bent  as  to  hear  some  voice  reply  ; 

No  answer  came  from  wood  or  meadow, 
Or  from  the  depths  of  the  cloudless  sky. 

Just  then  I  saw  the  vine  leaves  tremble 
Beside  the  bower  that  I  had  found, 

And  half  I  thought  to  behold  a  palace 
Rise  complete  from  the  opening  ground. 

But  no ;  there  rose  from  beside  the  bower 
Only  a  child  three  or  four  years  old ; 

Oh,  such  a  sweet  little  boy,  dear  mother, 
With  roguish  eyes  and  with  hair  like  gold ! 

I  think  he  had  but  just  awakened, 

He  seemed  in  a  maze— half  bliss,  half  fear; 

And  the  thought  came  to  my  mind,  my  mother, 
"  He  has  been  sleeping  the  fairy  year." 


LETTERS  FROM  EUROPE.  45 

But  the  woman,  she  shouted  "  Lilla  !" 

And  sprang  and  clasped  him  close  to  her  breast ; 

He  laughed  merrily  while  she  kissed  him, 
But  she  wept  loud,  as  if  over-blest. 

And  they  two  went  on  their  way  rejoicing, 

And  I  came  home  to  my  mother  dear, 
With  as  many  happy  things  to  tell 

As  would  take  you  all  the  night  to  hear. 

MOTHER.     Thanks,  and  a  fervent  blessing,  Annie, 

Take  for  the  tale  you  have  partly  told ; 
You  have  brought  home  from  wood  and  meadow 

Richer  gifts  than  the  fairy  gold.  IDA. 


For  the  Magnolia. 

LETTERS  FROM  EUROPE.-NO.  II. 

City  Road  Chapel — Richard  Reese — The  Burial  Ground — Wesley's  Grave 
— Interior  of  the  Chapel— Altar — Tablet  to  Wesley — The  Epitaph — 
Fletchere's  Monument  and  Epitaph — Benson's — Charles  Wesley's. 

MY  DEAR  M., — I  received  yours  the  day  before  yesterday, 
urging  me  to  visit  the  famous  City  Road  Chapel,  and  send 
you  a  description  of  it.  It  was  not  necessary  that  you  should 
remind  me  of  that  interesting  monument  of  the  great  Wesley, 
for  I  had  included  it  in  my  plan  of  excursions.  We  spent 
several  hours  at  it  yesterday,  and  it  fortunately  happened  that 
we  met  in  the  parsonage  (which  is  adjacent  to  it)  a  venerable 
Wesleyan  clergyman,  Rev.  Richard  Reese,  who  has  travelled 
in  the  United  States,  and  takes  pleasure,  as  he  personally 
proved  to  us,  in  showing  attentions  to  American  visitors.  He 
accompanied  us  through  the  chapel  and  burial  ground,  ex- 
plaining every  thing  of  interest,  and  making  most  entertaining 
comments.  He  is  one  of  the  most  interesting  men  I  have  yet 
met  in  England — most  venerable  and  dignified  in  his  person, 
and  full  of  blandness  of  manners. 

But  to  the  chapel.  City  Road  Chapel  derives  its  name 
from  the  noble  avenue  upon  which  it  stands,  once  a  highway 


46  LETTERS  FROM  EUROPE. 

to  the  city,  now  a  principal  street  in  it.  The  chapel  stands 
back  several  rods  from  the  street,  and  has  a  small  greensward 
in  front,  incfosed  by  an  iron  railing.  The  exterior  of  the 
building  is  rather  simple  than  plain.  We  passed  immediately 
around  by  a  path  on  the  sward,  to  its  rear,  to  see  the  tombs 
of  the  great  and  good  men,  whose  names  are  identified  with 
the  church  or  the  great  Wesleyan  body,  of  which  it  may  be 
considered  the  symbolic  monument.  The  grave-yard  in  the 
rear  is  not  large,  and  is,  I  believe,  devoted  to  the  burial  of 
select  members  of  the  connection.  It  contains  the  tombs  of 
of  Wesley,  Clarke,  Benson,  Watson,  and  many  of  the  vete- 
rans of  Methodism,  including  several  "  leaders"  and  "  stew- 
ards" of  the  olden  time. 

Wesley's  tomb  is  the  most  prominent,  by  its  size.  It  is  a 
quadrangular  mass  of  hard  sandstone,  about  three  feet  high, 
with  scarcely  any  ornament.  A  number  of  other  early  Meth- 
odist preachers  are  interred  in  the  same  tomb ;  their  names 
are  on  the  monument.  It  bears,  also,  that  of  Mrs.  Martha 
Hall,  sister  of  Wesley.  The  following  is  a  copy  of  the  epi- 
taph of  the  great  man  : 

To  the  memory  of 

The  venerable  John  Wesley,  A  M., 

Late  Fellow  of  Lincoln  College,  Oxford. 

This  great  light  arose 
(By  the  singular  providence  of  God) 

To  enlighten  these  nations, 

And  to  revive,  and  enforce,  and  defend 

The  pure  Apostolical  doctrines  and  practices  of 

The  Primitive  Church, 

Which  he  continued  to  do  both  by  his  writings  and  his  labors, 

For  more  than  half  a  century, 

And  to  his  inexpressible  joy, 

Not  only  beheld  their  influence  extending 

And  their  efficacy  witnessed 

In  the  hearts  and  lives  of  many  thousands, 

As  well  in  the  Western  World  as  in  these  Kingdoms  ; 

But  also  far  above  all  human  power  or  expectation, 

Lived  to  see  provision  made  by  the  singular  grace  of  God 

For  their  continuance  and  establishment, 

To  the  joy  of  future  generations. 
Reader,  if  thou  art  constrained  to  bless  the  instrument, 

Give  God  the  glory. 

After  having  languished  a  few  days  he, 

At  length,  finished  his  course,  and  his 

Life  together,  gloriously  triumphing  over 

Death,  March  2d,  An.  Dom.,  1791,  in  the 

Eighty -eighth  year  of  his  age. 


LETTERS  FROM  EUROPE.  47 

Next  to  Wesley's  tomb  is  that  of  the  learned  commentator, 
Dr.  Adam  Clarke.  It  contains,  likewise,  the  remains  of  his 
wife,  and  simply  records  their  names.  Watson's  grave  is 
also  near  at  hand. 

We  entered  the  chapel.  Its  workmanship  is  much  ad- 
mired, being  exceedingly  light  and  graceful,  and  not  destitute 
of  ornament.  Galleries  extend  on  the  two  sides  and  the 
front.  The  ceiling  is  wrought  with  simple  but  beautiful 
decorations,  and  also  the  fronts  of  the  galleries.  The  pulpit 
in  which  Wesley  preached,  still  stands  in  its  original  form, 
the  old  "  wine-glass"  model,  with  winding  stairs  to  it,  and  a 
clerk's  desk  for  the  national  church  prayers,  immediately  be- 
low it  in  front.  Wesley,  you  will  recollect,  left  a  legacy  for 
the  expense  of  a  perpetual  clerk  to  read  the  prayers  in  this 
venerable  chapel.  The  pulpit  stands  somewhat  out  in  the 
area  of  the  church,  before  the  altar.  The  latter  is  a  semi- 
circular railing  of  mahogany,  inclosing  an  alcove  in  the  wall, 
which  forms  with  it  a  circle.  This  fine  alcove  extends  to  the 
ceiling.  In  the  upper  part  are  three  windows,  corresponding 
to  the  windows  of  the  galleries ;  but  in  the  lower  part,  instead 
of  windows,  are  three  mahogany  compartments,  correspond- 
ing to  the  windows  beneath  the  galleries,  and  containing 
inscriptions  in  letters  of  gold,  of  the  Lord's  Prayer,  the  Dec- 
alogue, and  the  Apostles'  Creed.  On  either  side  of  these  is 
a  space  in  the  alcove,  which  is  occupied  by  monumental  tab- 
lets— three  tablets  in  each,  one  above  the  other.  They  are 
all  slabs  of  fine  white  marble,  inserted  in  dark-colored  marble, 
as  a  back  ground. 

At  the  top  of  the  side  to  the  left  of  the  spectator,  is  the 
tablet  to  Wesley.  On  the  top  of  the  slab  rests  an  entablature 
on  which  is  wrought  a  globe,  with  the  Atlantic  Ocean,  and 
the  West  of  Europe  and  East  of  North  America  apparent, 
indicating  the  extent  of  Methodism  at  his  death.  On  the 
left  face  of  the  globe  is  a  trumpet  resting  on  the  Bible.  On 
the  right  is  the  "_Liturgy,"  with  a  scroll  reclining  on  it.  The 
scroll  is  inscribed  with  his  dying  words :  "  The  best  of  all 
is  God  is  with  us."  The  following  is  the  ejpitaph : 


48  LETTERS  FROM  EUROPE. 

Sacred  to  the  memory  of 

The  Rev.  John  Wesley,  A.  M., 

Sometime  Fellow  of  Lincoln  College,  Oxford; 

A  man  in  learning  and  sincere  piety 

Scarcely  inferior  to  any; 

In  zeal,  ministerial  labors  and  extensive  usefulness, 

Superior,  perhaps,  to  all  men  since  the  days  of  St.  Paul. 

Regardless  of  fatigue,  personal  danger  and  disgrace, 

lie  went  out  into  the  highways  and  hedges 

Calling  sinners  to  repentance,  | 

And  publishing  the  Gospel  of  Peace. 

He  was  the  founder  of  the  Methodist  Society, 

And  the  chief  promoter  and  patron 

Of  the  plan  of  itinerant  preaching, 

Which  he  extended  through  Great  Britain  and  Ireland, 

The  West  Indies  and  America,  with  unexampled  success. 

He  was  born  17  June,  1703, 

And  died  2  March,  1791. 

In  sure  and  certain  hope  of  eternal  life 

Through  the  atonement  and  mediation  of 

A  crucified  Savior. 

He  was  sixty-five  years  in  the  ministry, 
And  fifty-two  an  itinerant  preacher. 

He  lived  to  see,  in  these  Kingdoms  only, 

About  300  itinerant  and  1000  local  preachers 

Raised  up  from  the  midst  of  his  own  people, 

And  80,000  persons  in  the  societies 

Under  his  care ; 

\         His  name  will  ever  be  had  in  grateful  remembrance, 
By  all  who  rejoice  in  the  universal  spread 
Of  the  Gospel  of  Christ. 
Soli  Deo  Gloria. 

Immediately  beneath  the  tablet  to  Wesley  is  one  to 
Fletchere.  The  slab  which  bears  the  inscription  is  surmounted 
by  a  semi-circular  cavity  in  the  marble.  Within  this  arch 
and  occupying  the  centre  of  its  base,  is  the  ark  of  the  cove- 
nant, covered  by  the  wings  of  the  cherubim,  and  bearing  on 
its  front  the  cross  circled  by  a  halo.  On  the  right  of  the 
altar  are  two  volumes ;  upon  the  other,  with  a  half-unrolled 
scroll  resting  upon  them,  on  the  scroll  are  the  words,  so  char- 
acteristic of  him : 

"  With  meekness 

of 
Wisdom." 

On  the  left  are  also  two  volumes,  the  lower  one  labelled, 
"The  Portrait  of  St.  Paul,"  and  the  upper  "checks,"  desig- 
nating his  two  chief  works.  The  following  truly  appropriate 
and  eloquent  epitaph  is  on  the  slab : 


LETTERS    FROM    EUROPE.  4» 

Sacred  to  the  memory 

Of  Rev.  John  de  la  Fletchere, 

Friar  of  Madeley,  in  Stropshire. 

Born  at  Nyon,  in  Switzerland,  12  Sept.,  1729, 

And  died  August  14,  1785. 

A  man  eminent  for  eloquence,  genius 

And  Theological  learning;  still  more 

Distinguished  for  sanctity  of  manners  and 

The  virtues  of  primitive  Christianity. 

Adorned  with  "  whatsoever  things  are  pure, 

Whatsoever  things  are  lovely,"  and  bringing 

Forth  the  fruits  of  the  spirit  in  singular 

Richness  and  maturity.     The  measure  of 

Every  other  grace  in  him  was  exceeded  by 

His  deep  and  unaffected  humility. 

Of  enlarged  views  as  to  the  merit  of  the 

Atonement  and  of  those  gracious  rights 

With  which  it  invests  those  who  believe, 

He  had  "  boldness  to  enter  into  the  holiest 

By  the  blood  of  Jesus."     And  in  reverent  and 

Transporting  contemplation  (the  habit  of  his  devout 

And  hallowed  spirit)  he  dwelt  as  beneath 

The  wings  of  the  Cherubim,  beholding  the 

Glory  of  God  in  the  face  of  Jesus  Christ, 

And  was  "changed  into  the  same  image,"  teaching 

By  his  attainments  more  than  by  his  writings, 

The  fulness  of  evangelical  promises,  and  with 

What  intimacy  of  communion  man  may 

Walk  with  God.     He  was  the  friend  and 

Coadjutor  of  Rev.  John  Wesley,  M.  A.,  whose 

Apostolic  views  of  general  redemption, 
Justification  by  Faith  and  Christian  reflection 

He  successfully  defended,  leaving  to  future 

Ages  an  able  exposition  of  "  the  truth  which  is 

According  to  Godliness,"  and  erecting  an 

Impregnable  rampart  against  Pharisaic 

And  Antinomian  error,  in  a  series  of  works 

Distinguished  by  the  beauty  of  their  style,  by 

Force  of  argument,  and  by  a  gentle  and 

Catholic  spirit,  affording  an  edifying 

Example  of  "  speaking  the  truth  in  love"  in 

A  long  and  ardent  controversy.     For  twenty-five 

Years  the  Parish  of  Madeley  was  the  scene 

Of  his  unexampled  pastoral  labors,  and  he 

Was  there  interred  amidst  the  tears  and 

Lamentations  of  thousands,  the  testimony 

Of  their  hearts  to  his  exalted  piety,  and  to  his 

Unwearied  exertions  for  their  salvation.     But 

His  memory  triumphed  over  death,  his  saintly 

Example  exerts  increasing  influence  in  the 

Church  of  Christ,  through  the  study  of  his 

Writings  and  the  publication  of  his  biography. 

In  token  of  their  veneration  for  his  character, 

.   And  in  gratitude  for  the  services  rendered  by 

jHim  to  the  cause  of  Truth,  this  monument 

Was  erected  by  the  Trustees  of  this  Chapel,  A.  D.,  1822. 

At  the  base  of  this  slab  and  inserted  in  the  same  back- 
ground of  dark  marble,  is  a  medallion  piece  of  rich,  white 

VOL.  II.  4 


50  BETTERS  FROM  EUROPE. 

marble,  circled  with  a  wreath,  and  containing  a  dove,  spread- 
ing its  wings  over  a  scroll  tied  up  with  pens. 

Beneath  Fletchere's  is  Benson's  monument.  It  is  a  fine 
tablet  of  pentagomal  form,  wrought  with  flowers  about  its 
top,  and  containing  the  device  of  a  butterfly  rising  from  the 
chrysalis  state — an  emblem  of  the  resurrection.  The  follow- 
ing is  the  inscription  of  this  tablet : 

Sacred  to  the  memory 

Of  Joseph  Benson, 

Who,  as  a  Christian,  was  holy,  devoted  and  consistent ; 
Learned,  orthodox  and  practical,  as  a  commentator  ; 

Zealous,  laborious  and  faithful  as  a  pastor. 

His  public  instructions  were  marked  by  seriousness, 

Accuracy  and  fervor,  and  being  accompanied  with 

The  unction  of  the  Holy  One,  for  which 

He  continued  constant  in  prayer,  were 
Eminently  acceptable  and  useful ;  "  by  manifestation 

Of  the  truth  commending  himself  to  every 
Man's  conscience  in  the  sight  of  God."     As  the 

Messenger  of  Christ  he  persuaded  men,  and 
"  Much  people  was  added  unto  the  Lord."     Having 

Served  his  generation  by  the  will  of  God,  he 
Peacefully  slept  in  Jesus,  Feb.  16,  1321,  aged  73. 

At  the  right  of  the  spectator,  in  the  alcove,  and  corres- 
ponding to  John  Wesley's  tablet,  is  one  to  the  memory  of 
Charles  Wesley.  It  is  represented  as  standing  on  two  books, 
one  inscribed  "  Hymns,"  the  other  "  Sacred  Poems."  On 
the  upper  part  is  wrought  a  Bible,  on  which  reclines  an  open 
volume,  inscribed  with  the  sentence,  "  God  buries  his  work- 
men, but  carries  on  his  work/'  To  the  right  is  a  group  of 
devices  composed  of  the  cross,  resting  on  a  scroll,  inscribed 
with  the  text,  "  Psalms  and  Hymns,"  &c.,  and  the  sacramen- 
tal cup  and  plate  of  bread.  To  the  left  is  a  lyre  wreathed 
with  olive.  The  epitaph  is  as  follows : 

Sacred  to  the  memory  of 

The  Rev.  Charles  Wesley,  A.  M., 

Educated  at  Westminster  School, 

And  some  time  student  of  Christ  Church,  Oxford. 

As  a  preacher,  he  was  eminent  for  ability,  zeal  and  usefulness. 

Being  learned,  without  pride, 

And  pious,  without  ostentation, 

To  the  sincere,  diffident  Christian, 

A  son  of  consolation  ; 
But  to  the.  vain  boasted,  the  hypocrite  and  the  profane, 

A  son  of  thunder. 
He  was  the  first  who  received  the  name  of  Methodist, 


THE  MOTHER'S  FAREWELL.  51 

And,  uniting  with  his  brother,  the  Rev.  John  Wesley, 

In  the  plan  of  itinerant  preaching, 
Endured  hardship,  persecution  and  disgrace 

As  a  good  soldier  of  Jesus  Christ. 

Contributing  largely  by  the  usefulness  of  his  labors, 

To  the  first  formation  of  the  Methodist  Societies 

In  these  Kingdoms. 

As  a  Christian  poet,  he  stood  unrivalled, 

And  his  hymns  will  convey  instruction  and  consolation. 

As  long  as  the  English  language  shall  be  understood. 

He  was  born  18  Dec.,  1708, 

And  died  29  March,  1788.. 

A  firm  and  pious  believer  in  the  doctrines  of  the  gospel, 

And  a  sincere  friend 
To  the  Church  of  England. 

(To  be  Continued.) 


For  the  Magnolia. 

THE  MOTHER'S  FAREWELL. 

BY  MRS.  MARION  G.  AMESBURY. 

FAREWELL,  farewell,  my  own  sweet  babe  ;  't  is  hard  to  give  thee  up, 
Yet  He  who  wills  its  bitterness  can  help  me  drink  the  cup ; 
Oh  !  may  His  plenteous  grace  sustain  and  soothe  my  bursting  heart, 
While  with  my  loved,  my  cherished  one,  I  thus  so  early  part. 

To  see  thy  sufFrings,  dearest  one,  my  heart  could  scarcely  brook ; 
I  did  not  deem  that  death  was  near,  though  agonized  thy  look ; 
And  when  they  told  me  thou  wast  dead,  I  thought  it  could  not  be, 
Those  pearly  lips,  that  velvet  cheek  so  precious  seemed  to  me. 

Though  well  I  knew  when  death  released  thy  pains  would  all  be  o'er, 
And  my  sweet  babe,  my  pleasant  one,  would  grieve  and  moan  no  more  ; 
Yet  words  are  vain — no  voice  hath  power  to  tell  my  tale  of  woe, 
Heart-rending  sobs  scarce  vent  the  grief  which  only  mothers  know. 

I  saw  them  lay  thee  in  the  grave,  that  resting-place  so  deep; 
My  spirit  oft  shall  hover  near  and  its  sad  vigils  keep, 
And  I  shall  watch  the  springing  grass  upon  thy  narrow  bed, 
And  plant  sweet  flow'rets  o'er  thy  grave,  my  beautiful !  my  dead  ! 

But  oh,  my  home  is  desolate  !  robbed  of  my  sweetest  flower ! 
For  mine  was  not  the  love  which  springs  and  withers  in  an  hour, 
But  many  months  of  weary  toil  and  some  of  anxious  care, 
Many  a  restless,  sleepless  night  for  thee,  I  did  not  spare. 


52  SKETCHES  OF  WESLEY. 

And  in  thy  strong  convulsions,  when  human  power  was  vairr, 

I  watched  thee  with  a  tearless  eye  to  see  thee  wake  again  ; 

To  catch  once  more  thy  beauteous  smile  and  greet  thy  joyous  eye, 

How  could  thy  mother's  heart  believe  that  then,  my  babe,  would  die  ? 

I  weep  ;  but  't  is  all  over  now,  my  grieving  is  in  vain ; 

Then  why  should  I  lament  thee,  love,  or  wish  thee  here  again  ? 

Alas  !  this  void  within  my  heart  no  earthly  gift  can  fill, 

No  power  but  that  which  rules  the  world  can  stay  my  restive  will. 

Though  I  shall  often  grieve  in  thought,  I'll  wipe  my  tears  away; 
'T  was  well,  I  know,  that  my  sweet  babe  should  here  no  longer  stay  > 
From  sin  and  sorrow,  pain  and  death,  she  ever  now  is  free, 
Far  in  those  realms  of  bliss  above  she  lives  in  purity. 

That  fairy  voice  will  join  the  strain  ofc  ransomed  ones  in  Heaven, 
And  she  will  tune  the  tiny  harp  which  unto  her  is  given; 
There  at  the  feet  of  Jesus  she  will  cast  her  crown  of  joy, 
And  ever  praise  His  holiness,  and  love  without  alloy. 


For  the  Magnolia, 

• 

SKETCHES  OF  WESLEY. -NO.  II. 

BY  REV.  D.  WISE. 

Wesley's  Matter— Mr.  Wesley's  Youth— The  Parsonage  Burnt — Narrow 
Escape— Mr.  Wesley  at  the  Charter  House— M  Oxford— Was  Mr.  Wes- 
ley a  Profound  Scholar1} — College  Honors — His  Plan  of  Study — The 
Secret  of  his  Scholastic  Growth. 

Few  men  have  ever  been  greatly  good,  who  have  not  been 
largely  indebted  to  their  mothers.  The  startling  qualities  of 
genius  are  usually  developed,  fostered  and  directed  at  the 
fireside.  Where  the  judicious  mother  has  been  wanting, 
genius  has  usually  been  misdirected,  erratic  or  passionate. 
Byron  and  his  mother  are  illustrations.  Mr.  Wesley  was 
trained  by  an  extraordinary  woman,  Mrs.  Susannah  Wesley. 
She  possessed  rather  a  masculine  mind,  was  deeply  pious, 
well  educated,  patient  in  toil,  energetic  in  action,  unconquer- 


SKETCHES  OP  WESLEY*  53 

able  in  will,  and  withal,  ardent  in  her  affections.  Unknown 
to  the  great  world,  this  honored  lady  was  busily  toiling  in  the 
nursery  of  Epworth  rectory  to  mould  the  rich  minds  of  her 
children  into  models  that  should  do  credit  to  humanity  and 
honor  to  the  Creator.  The  great  God  helped  her,  and  in 
that  lowly  parish  rectory,  she  evolved  powers  and  set  to  work 
influences  which  have  already  astonished  the  world,  and 
which  will  never  die. 

Under  such  care  Mr.  Wesley  passed  his  youth,  which  was 
in  no  way  distinguished  except  by  a  somewhat  extraordinary 
ripeness  of  intellect  and  by  a  narrow  escape  from  death  by 
fire,  when  about  six  years  of  age. 

This  accident  happened  about  midnight.  The  cry  of  fire 
awakened  Mr.  Wesley's  father,  who  arose,  and  opening  his 
chamber  door,  found  the  house  full  of  smoke  and  the  roof 
already  burnt  through.  He  alarmed  his  family,  and  by  in- 
credible efforts,  succeeded,  with  Mrs.  Wesley  and  seven  of 
the  children,  in  reaching  the  outside. 

It  was  now  perceived  that  "  little  lackey,"  as  he  was 
called,  had  been  left  behind.  Just  then  the  little  fellow  was 
heard  to  utter  a  piercing  cry  for  help.  The  fire  had  pene- 
trated the  chamber  where  he  was,  and  he  was  nearly  suffo- 
cating in  the  smoke.  He  ran  to  the  door.  The  flames 
checked  him.  He  then  rushed  to  the  window,  and  by  the 
help  of  an  old  chest,  climbed  up  so  as  to  show  himself.  His 
father,  in  a  frenzy  of  paternal  agony,  rushed  to  the  burning 
stairs  and  tried  to  force  his  way  through  the  flames.  The 
effort  was  vain.  He  retreated,  and  falling  upon  his  knees, 
commended  his  burning  boy  to  God.  But  that  Divine  Prov- 
idence which  had  a  work  for  that  child  to  do,  found  an  in- 
strument to  save  his  life.  Some  men  assembled  in  the  yard, 
saw  him.  One  of  them  mounted  upon  the  shoulders  of 
another,  pulled  the  child  through  the  casement  precisely  at 
the  moment  in  which  the  roof  fell  in  upon  the  chamber  floor. 
Call  this  a  happy  accident,  if  you  please ;  I  call  it  the  hand 
of  Providence  snatching  a  favored  instrument  of  its  vast 
plans  from  the  jaws  of  destruction.  When  the  rescued  boy 


54  SKETCHES  OF  WESLEY. 

was  ^resented  to  his  astonished  father,  the  good  man  cried 
out,  "  Come,  neighbors,  let  us  kneel  down  ;  let  us  give  thanks 
to  God  !  He  has  given  me  all  my  eight  children  ;  I  am  rich 
enough.  Let  the  house  go  !" 

Can  a  spectacle  of  greater  moral  beauty  be  imagined  than 
this,  of  the  Rector  of  Epworth,  surrounded  by  his  babes, 
kneeling  at  midnight  in  the  lurid  glare  of  a  fire  which  was 
reducing  him  almost  to  destitution,  and  there  pouring  forth 
the  burning  expressions  of  a  grateful  soul  to  that  inscrutable 
Being,  whose  permissive  providence  was  in  the  act  of  grasp- 
ing all  his  worldly  goods  ?  If  ever  human  nature  looked 
beautiful  to  its  Creator,  it  was  then  ! 

When  at  the  age  of  eleven,  Mr.  Wesley  was  sent  to  the 
Charter  House  in  London,  and  placed  under  the  care  of  that 
eminent  scholar,  Dr.  Walker.  Here  he  remained,  with  a 
high  reputation  for  his  application  to  study,  until  he  was  sev- 
enteen, when  he  was  elected  to  Christ  Church,  Oxford. 
Having  determined,  from  conscientious  motives,  to  be  a  cler- 
gyman, he  was  ordained  a  deacon  of  the  Church  of  England 
at  the  age  of  twenty-two,  by  Dr.  Potter,  then  Bishop  of  Ox- 
ford. The  next  year  (1726)  he  was  elected  Fellow  of  Lin- 
coln College.  The  following  February  he  proceeded  Master 
of  Arts,  and  the  next  year  (1728)  he  was  ordained  a  priest, 
by  the  same  prelate  who  had  ordained  him  a  deacon,  three 
years  before. 

Was  Mr.  Wesley  a  man  of  extensive  erudition  ?  Was  he 
a  profound  scholar  ?  or,  was  he  a  mere  sciolist,  a  pretender 
to  knowledge  ?  The  solution  of  these  questions  is  important, 
because  the  opinions  of  literary  and  thinking  men,  concern- 
ing the  founder  of  Methodism,  will  be  more  or  less  modified, 
according  to  their  views  of  the  capacity  of  his  intellect  and  the 
solidity  of  his  attainments.  Prove  him  a  sciolist,  and  they 
will  attribute  his  labors  and  zeal  to  ambition,  guided  by  fa- 
naticism. Prove  him  a  ripe,  profound  and  varied  scholar,  to 
whom  the  highest  honors  of  his  profession  were  open  in  the 
more  easy  and  beaten  pathway  of  established  usages  and  in- 
stitutions, and  they  will  more  readily  accord  honesty  and  true 


SKETCHES  OF  WESLEY.  55 

religious  feeling  to  the  man,  who,  in  becoming  the  architect 
of  a  new  religious  sect,  forfeited  positive  advantages  and 
received  the  scorn,  obloquy  and  persecution  of  his  country- 
men, for  years,  before  the  collossal  proportions  of  the  spiritual 
edifice  he  was  rearing,  were  visible  to  the  public  eye.  Fortu- 
nately the  proof  is  abundant  and  conclusive,  that  John  Wesley 
was  a  ripe  and  finished  scholar. 

I  say  nothing  of  his  ordinations  or  of  his  college  degrees, 
because  it  is  well  known  that  prelatic  hands  have  been  often 
laid  on  "  skulls  that  would  not  learn,"  and  college  honors 
have  been  bestowed  on  worthless  candidates ;  but  that  Mr. 
Wesley  was  not  of  this  class,  is  clear,  for  he  gained  consid- 
erable eclat  by  the  ability  of  his  disputation  when  his  degree 
was  conferred.  His  election  as  Fellow  of  Lincoln,  may  be 
triumphantly  adduced  in  proof  of  his  scholarship,  inasmuch  as 
in  that  election  he  had  to  compete  with  his  seniors,  with 
many  fine  scholars,  and  the  only  influences  his  friends  could 
employ  in  his  behalf,  were  those  which  grew  out  of  his  char- 
acter as  a  man,  and  his  attainments  as  a  scholar.  And  it 
was  on  these  grounds,  he  was  elected. 

That  he  enjoyed  a  high  reputation  for  learning,  at  Oxford, 
is  shown  by  his  being  chosen  Greek  lecturer  and  moderator 
of  the  classes,  only  eight  months  after  being  elected  Fellow 
of  the  College,  before  he  had  proceeded  Master  of  Arts,  and 
when  little  more  than  twenty-three  years  of  age. 

The  variety  of  his  studies  and  the  vigor  of  his  mind,  are 
shown  by  the  plan  of  study  adopted  by  him  after  proceeding 
or  graduating  Master  of  Arts.  Monday  and  Tuesday  of 
each  week,  he  devoted  to  Greek  and  Latin  historians  and 
poets  ;  Wednesday,  to  Logic  and  Ethics ;  Thursday,  to  He- 
brew and  Arabic  ;  Friday,  to  Metaphysics  and  Natural  Phi- 
losophy ;  Saturday,  to  Oratory  and  Poetry.  Between  his 
hours  for  regular  study,  he  made  himself  master  of  the  French 
language,  and  read  many  of  the  best  works  on  medicine 
and  miscellaneous  topics.  By  this  strict  application  he  learned 
to  converse  fluently  in  Latin,  and  could  both  speak  and  write 
it  with  remarkable  purity.  The  Greek  Testament  was  as 


56     LEAVES  FROM  THE  NOTE  BOOK  OF  A  GOVERNESS. 

familiar  to  him  as  the  English,  while  his  almost  unsurpassable 
skill  in  logic  was  universally  conceded  at  Oxford.  He  pur- 
sued his  mathematical  studies  as  a  means  of  promoting  a 
habit  of  close  thinking,  and  the  study  of  divinity  he  reserved 
for  the  sabbath. 

Diligence,  joined  to  good  natural  elements  of  mind,  was 
the  secret  of  his  growth  in  learning.  Knowledge  was  not 
intuitive  in  Mr.  Wesley.  He  labored  for  it  diligently,  and 
he  succeeded.  This  characteristic  feature  of  his  mind  was 
forcibly  shown  by  a  remark  which  he  made,  when  more  than 
eighty  years  old,  to  Mr.  Moore,  one  of  his  most  able  preach- 
ers and  his  best  biographer.  They  had  traveled  from  Ports- 
mouth, in  Hampshire,  to  Cobham,  in  Surrey,  which  they 
reached  before  one  o'clock,  when  he  observed,  "  We  should 
lose  no  time  ;  we  have  not,  like  the  Patriarchs,  seven  or  eight 
hundred  years  to  play  with." 


For  the  Magnolia!. 

LEAVES  FROM  THE  NOTE  BOOK  OF  A  GOVERNESS, 

OR    PICTURES    OF    THE    PAST. 

BT    LAURA    LOTELL. 

NO.      II. 

ON  a  pleasant  winter  evening,  a  few  years  since,  a  joyous 
wedding  party  were  assembled  in  a  small  village  not  far  dis- 
tant from  one  of  our  New-England  cities.  The  only  daugh- 
ter of  wealthy  parents,  the  belle  of  the  village,  was  about  to 
bid  adieu  to  her  quiet  home  for  a  sphere  where  her  beauty 
and  accomplishments  might  have  a  greater  circle  of  admirers, 
but  not  one  of  more  devoted  and  affectionate  friends  than 
those  who  had  long  known  and  loved  her.  For  several  days, 


LEAVES  FROM  THE  NOTE  BOOK  OF  A  GOVERNESS.     57 

there  had  been  of  course  an  unusual  bustle  about  the  peace- 
ful mansion  ;  bridal  paraphernalia  was  profusely  scattered 
about,  and  invitations  were  sent  to  several  distant  friends. 
Among  others,  cards  were  inclosed  to  some  friends  in  Balti- 
more, one  to  a  young  man  who  was  a  partner  in  business  with 
the  bride's  father,  and  another  to  a  family  of  near  and  be- 
loved relatives.  The  writer  directed  the  envelopes  to  the  in- 
dividuals for  whom  they  were  designed  with  no  additional 
explanation  to  the  formal  printed  invitation  inclosed.  The 
day  before  the  wedding  an  equally  formal  acceptance  arrived 
from  the  family  invited  ;  "  Mr.  and  Mrs.  R.  T.  C.  accept  with 
pleasure  Miss  A.'s  invitation  for  Wednesday  eve."  Every 
thing  progressed  favorably,  and  nothing  occurred  to  mar  the 
prospect  of  anticipated  pleasure.  The  evening  came,  and 
carnage  after  carriage  brought  those  who  had  been  invited  to 
participate  in  the  festivities  of  the  occasion — still  our  friends 
from  Baltimore  had  not  arrived.  It  was  a  disappointment, 
but  as  we  had  not  learned  that  they  had  left  home,  and  many 
things  might  have  prevented  their  departure,  the  circumstance 
occasioned  little  anxiety.  At  length  the  hour  arrived  and  the 
bridal  party  entered  the  room.  The  bride,  whose  beauty  was 
of  a  brilliant  and  sparkling  character,  on  this  evening  seemed 
surpassingly  lovely.  Her  slight  and  fragile  form  was  arrayed 
in  a  robe  of  rich  white  satin,  which  shone  like  silver  in  the 
soft  lamplight.  A  simple  gold  chain  encircled  her  neck,  and 
her  dark  hair,  which  usually  hung  in  glossy  ringlets,  was  put 
back  simply,  and  ornamented  by  a  single  bunch  of  orange- 
blossoms.  I  had  been  with  her  for  several  weeks  preceding, 
and  as  usual,  saw  daily  some  new  aspect  of  her  ever-changing, 
ever-radiant  beauty.  If  she  had  day  by  day  appeared  before 
me  peerless  as  the  diamond  among  precious  gems,  so  now  the 
pearl  seemed  a  fitting  image  of  her  softened  loveliness.  We 
were  gay,  but  not  immoderately  so,  for  our  loved  one  was 
about  to  leave  us,  and  we  knew  that  the  morrow  would  find 
us  lonely,  with  the  light  of  one  sunny  countenance  shedding 
its  radiance  in  another  home.  After  the  bridal  party  had  left, 
we  who  remained  gathered  around  the  fireside  to  talk  over 


58     LEAVES  FROM  THE  NOTE  BOOK  OF  A  GOVERNESS. 

the  occurrences  of  the  evening.  Among  other  things,  I  re- 
member the  father  spoke  of  their  Baltimore  friends,  remark- 
ing that  he  would  rather  have  seen  them  than  any  who  were 
present. 

The  morrow  came,  and  we  were  lonely,  and  the  morning 
passed  heavily  away.  The  mother,  with  a  sad  heart,  went 
about  her  household  duties,  while  the  father  went  out  to  his 
daily  avocations.  About  the  middle  of  the  forenoon,  he  re- 
turned with  an  anxious  and  disturbed  look,  saying  that  there 
was  a  rumor  of  some  steamboat  accident,  and  it  was  possible 
their  friends  might  have  been  injured  or  at  least  detained  by 
it.  We  were  not  long  to  remain  in  suspense.  The  terrible 
news  of  the  destruction  of  the  Lexington  soon  burst  upon  us, 
and  the  papers  from  the  city  contained  the  particulars  of  the 
occurrence,  while  in  the  list  of  passengers,  appeared  one  name 
familiar  to  us  all,  that  of  R.  T.  C.  We  looked  anxiously  over 
the  remainder,  fearing  to  find  that  of  the  other  individual 
who  had  been  invited  ;  there  was  a  name  similar,  but  it  was 
not  his  name,  and  there  was  hope.  Alas !  the  next  paper 
contained  a  more  correct  account,  and  told  that  he  too  was 
numbered  with  the  dead.  Now  indeed  there  was  a  gloom 
over  us  all,  for  they  had  left  their  distant  homes  at  our  sum- 
mons with  joyous  hopes  of  greeting  friends,  and  no  dark  fore- 
bodings of  the  future  evil.  In  directing  the  envelope  which 
contained  the  cards  of  invitation,  I  had  unconsciously  signed, 
as  it  were,  their  death-warrant.  One  short  hour  saw  them 
in  the  possession  of  youth,  health  and  happiness,  and  wit- 
nessed scenes  of  the  most  intense  and  overwhelming  agony. 
Succeeding  days  brought  additional  intelligence.  One  who 
came  another  way  had  parted  from  them  in  New-York  ;  one 
who  had  anticipated  coming  was  accidentally  detained ;  and 
as  in  our  presence  these  narrators  told  of  the  fate  of  the  oth- 
ers and  their  own  preservation,  our  minds  were  long  awake 
to  the  subject,  and  in  a  state  of  deep  and  painful  interest. 

The  after  fate  of  that  fair  girl  whose  bridal  morrow  dawned 
so  sadly,  was  little  else  than  a  fulfilment  of  these  sad  presages. 
True  the  golden  bond  of  mutual  affection  which  bound  the 


LEAVES  FROM  THE  NOTE  BOOK  OF  A  GOVERNESS.     59 

hearts  of  the  newly-wedded  ones  was  never  dimmed  by  neg- 
lect or  indifference,  but  grew  brighter  as  years  rolled  on.  A 
lovely  infant  was  added  to  the  family  circle.  The  mother's 
failing  health  rendered  a  journey  desirable,  and  with  many 
forebodings  she  left  her  little  one  for  a  tour  to  Niagara.  It 
was  attacked  almost  immediately  by  some  one  of  the  diseases 
incident  to  children,  and  died  within  three  days.  It  was  too 
late  to  recall  the  young  mother  ere  the  funeral,  and  it  was 
thought  best  to  leave  her  in  ignorance  of  the  child's  death 
until  her  return.  Theg  the  sad  intelligence  was  communi- 
cated as  gently  as  possible,  but  like  a  broken  lily  she  drooped 
ever  afterwards.  I  saw  her  once  more. — wan  and  wasted, 
clad  in  the  garb  of  mourning,  but  how  lovely.  She  spoke 
of  her  baby,  and  showed  me  the  lines  she  had  chosen  to  be 
engraved  on  its  tombstone  : 

"Mother,  dear  mother,  I  am  not  sleeping; 

Father,  look  up  to  the  soft  blue  sky ; 
Where  the  beautiful  stars  bright  watch  are  keeping : 
Singing  and  shining,  there  am  I." 

The  Bible  was  her  constant  companion,  and  she  was  evi- 
dently fast  ripening  for  the  spirit-world.  A  few  months  more 
passed  away  and  the  news  of  her  death  reached  me.  It  had 
been  most  triumphant.  The  hope  of  the  Christian  had  grown 
brighter  and  brighter,  till  perfect  day  dawned  upon  her  soul. 
One  who  stood  by  her  bed-side  till  the  last,  told  me  that 
never  in  her  hours  of  health  had  she  looked  so  surpassingly 
beautiful.  The  rose  of  consumption  lent  its  lustre  to  her 
cheek,  and  her  eye  sparkled  with  unwonted  fire.  She  seemed 
to  see  angels  watching  by  her  bed,  and  to  be  impatient  to 
join  their  glorious  company.  Speaking  of  her  child,  she 
said:  "  Mother,  I  shall  see  my  baby  in  heaven,  and  I  think 
I  shall  know  it,  too."  She  tried  to  sing,  but  her  voice  had 
failed.  She  said,  "  my  voice  will  be  loosed  in  heaven." 
Conscious  to  the  last,  she  retained  still  her  happy  and  bright 
smile,  and  her  eye,  as  it  took  its  last  look  of  earthly  objects 
and  fastened  its  gaze  upward,  shone  with  seraphic  joy. 

This  is  no  fiction  of  an  over- wrought  imagination.     The 


60  EDITOR'S  TABLE. 

reality  exceeds  the  power  of  the  pen  to  portray  it.  The 
mother's  heart  is  sad  as  she  misses  the  brightest  ornament  of 
her  fireside  and  looks  out  upon  the  quiet  grave-yard  where 
Mary  and  her  baby  lie  together.  I  have  visited  the  lonely 
mansion  and  missed  her  who  was  ever  the  first  to  greet  me 
with  the  warm  welcome*  of  her  happy  smile,  and  the  gentle 
grasp  of  her  soft  hand.  I  have  heard  the  storms  of  winter 
howl  over  the  grave  of  one  whom  living  "  the  winds  of 
heaven  had  never  visited  too  roughly."  The  snow-drifts  lay 
in  deep,  cold  masses  in  the  lone  grave-yard,  and  beneath 
them  reposed  the  fair  forms  which  were  once  the  object  of 
deep  admiration  and  warm  affection.  But  we  trust  the  loved 
and  lost  ones  are  now  rejoicing  in  the  presence  of  God,  and 
that  the  mother  has  met  and  recognized  her  lost  baby  among 
the  little  children  whom  our  Lord  still  suffers  to  come  to  him. 


EDITOR'S  TABLE. 

THE  JUDSON  OFFERING.  Tn  our  last  number,  we  alluded  to  this  inter- 
esting work,  which  has  been  some  two  or  three  months  before  the  public. 
It  is  edited  by  the  Rev.  John  Dowling,  of  New  York  city.  It  "has  been 
prepared,"  the  preface  states,  "  with  a  view  to  perpetuate,  among  the  thou- 
sands of  Mr.  Judson's  Christian  friends,  of  every  name,  the  memory  of 
his  long-wished,  and  welcome  visit  to  his  native  land.  The  design  of  this 
work  is  not  to  present  to  the  beloved  missionary  himself  the  incense  of 
praise.  That  he  neither  desires  nor  needs.  By  the  grace  of  God,  he  is 
what  he  is,  and  has  done  what  he  has  done ;  and  to  God  belongs  the  glory." 

"  The  work  is  also  intended  as  a  memento  of  Christian  affection  to  the 
memory  of  three  American  missionary  wives,  whose  remains  lie  in  three 
widely  distant  spots,  in  different  parts  of  the  earth  : — Ann  H.  Judson,  who 
has  long  slept  beneath  the  Hopia  tree,  in  Burmah — Harriet  Newell,  her 
early  bosom  friend,  who  lies  in  her  lonely  grave,  on  the  Isle  of  France — 
and  Sarah  B.  Judson,  whose  sainted  dust  has  been  laid  to  rest  on  the  Rock 
of  St.  Helena; — names,  which  are  the  common  property  of  all  denomina- 
tions of  Christians,  dear  alike  to  the  whole  family  of  Jesus,  of  every  land 
and  of  every  name." 


EDITOR'S  TABLE.  61 

It  may  likewise  be  considered  a  history  of  the  early  Bnrmah  mission. 
The  fifteen  "  Sketches  of  Missionary  Life,"  furnished  by  the  editor,  give 
the  reader  a  most  graphic  description  of  the  sufferings,  trials  and  triumphs 
of  the  first  devoted  messengers  to  that  benighted  land. 

We  presume  many  of  our  readers  are  familiar  with  the  interesting  biog- 
raphies of  Ann  H.  Judson.  We  are  sure  that  all  classes  of  readers  must 
be  interested  in  the  undaunted  heroism  and  romantic  devotion  which  this 
noble-hearted  woman  manifested  for  the  comfort  and  safety  of  her  husband. 
We  doubt  if  real  life  can  furnish  examples  of  more  self-sacrificing  intre- 
pidity. 

At  the  time  of  Mr.  Judson's  imprisonment  in  Ava,  there  was  really 
notbin,g  which  human  effort  could  suggest,  which  was  left  undone  by  this 
high-hearted  and  affectionate  wife.  One  of  the  sketches  is  justly  entitled 
"the  Christian  heroine."  The  following  extracts  may  give  some  idea  of 
the  unwearying  exertions  of  this  early  martyr. 

"  During  the  seven  or  eight  months  which  followed  Mr.  Judson's  impris- 
onment, scarcely  a  day  passed  in  which  this  heroic  woman  did  not  traverse 
the  crowded  streets  of  Ava,  for  the  purpose  of  imploring  the  pity  and  aid 
of  some  members  of  the  government  or  of  the  royal  family  to  accomplish 
her  husband's  release  :  '  The  continual  extortions  and  oppressions  to  which 
the  missionaries,  and  the  other  white  prisoners,  were  subject  during  these 
dreary  months,  are  indescribable.  Sometimes  sums  of  money  were  de- 
manded, sometimes  pieces  of  cloth,  and  handkerchiefs;  at  other  times,  an 
order  would  be  issued,  that  the  white  foreigners  should  not  speak  to  each 
other,  or  have  any  communication  with  their  friends  without.  Then  again, 
the  servants  were  forbidden  to  carry  in  their  food,  without  an  extra  fee. 
Sometimes,  for  days  and  days  together,'  says  this  Christian  heroine,  '  I 
could  not  go  into  the  prison  till  after  dark,  when  I  had  two  miles  to  walk, 
in  returning  to  the  house.'  " 

"  In  the  touching  narrative  penned  by  the  afflicted  sufferer  herself,  there 
is  scarcely  an  allusion  to  the  fact,  that  during  these  months  of  sorrow,  her 
tender  and  delicate  situation  was  such,  as  vastly  to  increase  the  severity  of 
the  exhaustion  and  fatigue,  consequent  upon  her  almost  incredible  exer- 
tions on  behalf  of  her  imprisoned  husband.  Yet,  is  there  a  tender  elo- 
quence, which  must  come  home  to  the  heart  of  every  Christian  mother,  in 
the  simple  mention  of  the  fact,  that  in  the  vety  midst  of  these  sufferings, 
and  while  the  distressed  and  sympathizing  father  was  chained  in  his  miser- 
able dungeon,  she  gave  birth  to  her  little  daughter  Maria;  and  that  her 
weary  visits  to  the  prison,  and  to  those  she  hoped  might  befriend  or  succor 
her  husband,  were  continued  almost  up  to  the  very  time  of  her  sad  and 
solitary  confinement." 

"  Who  can  describe  the  sufferings  of  that  day, 
When  in  her  lap  the  child  of  sorrow  lay, — 
Who,  raid  the  scenes  of  anguish,  war  and  strife, 
In  heathen  darkness  struggled  into  life ; 
On  whose  sad  brow,  already  marked  with  wo, 
No  father  smiles,  nor  tears  are  felt  to  flow :" 


6:2  EDITOR'S  TABLE. 

"  It  waa  on  the  26th  of  January,  1825,  that  little  Maria  was  thus  ushered 
into  the  world,  amidst  scenes  of  sadness  and  sorrow  ;  and  as  soon  as  re- 
turning strength  would  permit,  did  the  Christian  heroine  again  renew  her 
exertions  to  effect,  if  possible,  the  deliverance  of  her  husband  ;  and  if  not, 
to  visit  him  in  his  prison,  and  to  soothe  his  sufferings,  by  her  words  of  ten- 
derness, or  to  beguile  his  sadness  by  the  sight,  for  one  brief  hour  at  a  time, 
of  the  tender  pledge  of  their  mutual  love,  his  gentle  baby  daughter.  A 
touching  memorial  is  recorded,  of  one  of  these  visits  of  the  mother  and  her 
babe  to  the  prison,  which  '  the  jailor's  voice,  in  accents  harsh,'  forbade  to 
continue  longer  than  one  hour,  in  some  affecting  lines  written  by  Mr.  J., 
and  published  in  1827,  under  the  title  of  '  Lines  addressed  from  the  con- 
demned prison  in  Ava,  to  an  infant  daughter  twenty  days  old.'  " 

How  much  such  devotion  may  accomplish,  was  at  last  seen  in  the  results. 
By  her  repeated  visits  to  the  governor,  who  was  an  old  man,  Mrs.  J.  had 
gained  a  powerful  influence  over  him,  and  he  frequently  wept  like  a  child, 
at  his  inability  to  grant  her  requests.  At  one  time  he  told  her  that  he  had 
received  repeated  intimations  from  the  Queen's  brother,  to  put  the  white 
foreigners  to  death,  but  promised  that  though  he  should  execute  all  the 
others,  he  would  never  execute  her  husband. 

"  With  the  hope  of  effecting  his  deliverance,  and  in  order  to  be  con- 
stantly near  him,  she  removed  from  the  house,  and  erected  a  small  bamboo 
room  in  the  governor's  inclosure,  which  was  nearly  opposite  the  prison- 
gate.  Here  did  that  faithful  woman  take  up  her  station  to  watch  over  her 
suffering  husband,  and  to  besiege  the  governor  with  her  incessant  entrea- 
ties, till  at  length  the  old  man,  worn  out  with  '  her  continual  coming,  gave 
orders  to  place  Mr.  Judson  in  a  more  comfortable  apartment,  and  granted 
her  permission  to  go  in  and  out  all  times  of  the  day  to  administer  the  ne- 
cessary medicine  and  nourishment.  Now,'  says  she,  '  I  felt  happy  indeed  ; 
and  had  Mr.  J.  instantly  removed  into  a  little  bamboo  hovel,  so  low  that 
neither  of  us  could  stand  upright — but  a  palace  in  comparison  with  the 
place  he  had  left.'  " 

One  more  extract  and  we  have  done.  Mrs.  Judson  was  one  day  sud- 
denly summoned  to  the  presence  of  the  governor,  from  the  prison,  where 
she  had  gone  to  carry  her  husband's  breakfast.  She  was  detained  upon 
some  trifling  pretext,  and  during  her  absence,  Mr.  Judson,  who  was  suffer- 
ing with  a  fever,  and  the  other  missionaries,  were  removed  from  the  prison 
at  Ava,  and  driven  to  Oung-pen-la,  over  scorching  sands,  and  under  a  burn- 
ing sun.  One  of  the  prisoners,  a  poor  Greek,  died  on  the  road;  and  the 
others  expected  to  be  burnt  alive  as  soon  as  they  reached  their  destination. 

"  About  an  hour  or  two  after  their  arrival  at  this  miserable  place,  Mr. 
Judson,  with  his  fellow  sufferers,  chained  two  and  two,  were  seated  on  the 
ground  under  a  little  low  projection,  outside  of  the  prison,  almost  dead  with 
exhaustion  and  fatigue.  He  was  probably  thinking  of  his  heroic  and  de- 
voted wife,  who  was  left  behind  in  Ava,  and  picturing  to  himself,  the  an- 
guish of  her  affectionate  heart,  when  she  had  returned  from  the  governor's 


EDITOR'S  TABLE.  63 

to  the  prison,  and  had  found  him  gone.  Perhaps  he  was,  at  that  moment, 
offering  up  a  prayer,  that  God  would  sustain  her  in  that  hour  of  bitter 
agony."  *  *  "  He  lifted  up  his  eyes,  and  who  should  he  see 

approaching,  but  his  still  undaunted  and  noble  wife,  with  her  little  Maria, 
a  babe  of  three  months  old,  in  her  arms,  to  take  her  station  by  his  side,  to 
bind  up  his  bleeding  feet,  and  to  kiss  away  the  tears  which  coursed  each 
other  down  his  care-worn  cheeks." 

"  So  that  ministering  angel  had  found  out  the  spot  to  which  her  suffering 
husband  had  been  driven,  by  cruel  and  bloody  men.  Love  lent  her  wings 
to  traverse  the  burning  sands  of  the  desert ;  and  she  had  flown  on  those 
wings,  with  her  sad-hearted  baby  at  her  breast,  to  the  side  of  her  beloved." 

We  wish  our  limits  allowed  us  to  introduce  the  description  of  this  heroic 
woman's  death,  but  we  must  forbear.  Her  remains  and  those  of  the  little 
Maria,  who  died  six  months  after  her  sainted  mother,  rest  in  hope  beneath 
the  Hopia  tree. 

"  Calm  on  the  bosom  of  thy  God, 

Fair  spirit !  rest  thee  now  ! 
Ev'n  while  with  ours  thy  footsteps  trod, 

His  seal  was  on  thy  brow." 


•THERE'S    NOT    A    TINT    THAT    PAINTS. 


TC3^=H3p=p3fff3=F3f¥& 

~*T# 

1.    There's  not    a  tint  that  paints  the  rose,  Or    decks  tlie    ]'il  -  y         fair, 


~i  I  uir~t**~~  i^t^A 

-g^^^-i-  -to 


*— -EF-J3: 


9*9 


^  ^1      ^pr     -p       gp  IP"- 


=F= 

Or  streaks  the  humblest  flower  that  grows,  But  heaven  has  placed  it     there; 


@5r 

-->- 


^F-'-R 


»       "p"    r    P  ^~  P  r      P  <iii        "^=^ 


35H: 

^iz^Jiizzdr^iEeFi^z:  !±hjz 


Or  streaks  the  humblest  flower  that  grows,  But  heaven  has  placed  it        there. 


- 


I'VE  THOUGHT  OF  SOMETHING.  65 


;-.:      1o  2qi?'9i;J  fiw.ri  n •:•!!;;!  o/jvi  uu/)" 
n«,//   j:  Itofi   pj   iso  'rn<rl    byiv.'wi    !mi»n 

"I'VE  THOUGHT  OF  SOMETHING." 

THE  picture  before  us  tells  its  own  tale.  The  fair  lady, 
inspired  by  a  sudden  and  brilliant  idea,  has  seized  the  pen  to 
record  it  for  the  edification  of  the  world.  With  bare  feet, 
night  dress  and  dishevelled  hair,  she  turns  a  deaf  ear  to  the 
cry  of  her  helpless  infant  and  the  entreaties  of  her  husband. 
In  her  haste  she  has  upset  the  chair ;  her  slippers,  flung  care- 
lessly aside,  lie  in  the  middle  of  the  floor ;  a  bust  decorates 
the  wall,  a  vase  of  flowers  the  table  ;  books  lie  profusely  scat- 
tered around,  while  she  herself,  by  lamplight,  is  inditing  an 
ode.  Many  female  scribblers  doubtless  there  are,  who  thus 
abuse  the  fire  of  genius.  Many  also  there  are,  and  have  been, 
who  not  unmindful  of  their  highest  and  holiest  duties,  make 
their  talents  subservient  to  domestic  happiness.  Such  was 
Mrs.  Hemans — the  lofty  poetess,  the  star  of  the  world's  ad- 
miration ;  yet  the  affectionate  and  devoted  mother,  the  trust- 
ful and  loving  woman.  Such  was  Hannah  More — modest, 
retiring,  unassuming.  Such  are  living  poetesses;  one  of 
whom  it  is  our  happiness  to  know  and  love.  A  devoted 
daughter,  unwearied  for  many  years  in  her  cares  of  a  lonely 
and  venerable  sire,  a  true  and  valuable  friend,  her  worth  shines 
most  brightly  and  most  serenely  by  the  quiet  of  her  "ain 
fireside."  The  world  gazes  at  a  distance  on  the  productions 
of  her  pen,  and  admires ;  those  who  know  her  almost  forget 
the  laurels  with  which  Fame  has  crowned  her  brow,  so  meekly 
does  she  wear  these  honors.  Nor  are  these  solitary  instances : 
we  believe  most  of  our  American  poetesses  are  best  appre- 
ciated in  private  life. 

The  motto  of  the  picture  suggests,  however,  several  other 
topics.  "  I  've  thought  of  something" — what  an  expressive 
phrase.  All  the  great  discoveries  and  inventions  which  have 
blessed  mankind  might  have  been  ushered  in  with  this.  An- 
cient sages,  philosophers  and  heroes  might  have  employed  it 

VOL.  II.  5 


66 


PRAYER. 


in  originating  their  mightiest  projects.  The  expression  must 
often  have  fallen  from  the  lips  of  Napoleon  ere  his  ambitious 
mind  hurried  him  on  to  action.  In  a  word,  every  great 
achievement  of  ancient  or  modern  times  might  have  been 
thus  heralded. 

Many  times  it  has  broken  joyously  forth  from  reflecting 
silence,  announcing  some  bright  vision.  Oftener,  perhaps,  it 
has  been  the  token  of  sad  recollections.  Thoughts  of  the 
happy  days  of  the  past,  which  return  no  more ;  of  hours 
spent  in  the  society  of  loved  ones  passed  forever  away  from 
earth — of  long-buried  joys,  and  hopes  which  vanished  in  their 
budding.  All  these  we  have  remembered.  We  have  thought 
of  the  future,  with  anxiety  and  dread ;  we  have  thought  of 
the  realities  of  life  and  of  the  conclusion  of  all  its  joys  and 
sorrows.  Happy  he  who  looks  to  the  unseen  future  with  firm 
faith  and  trust  in  that  Providence  who  alone  guides  and  con- 
trols all  events  and  circumstances,  and  bids  ITS  take  no  anxious 
thought  for  the  morrow. 


for  the  Magnolia. 

PRAYER.       . 

"  And  in  the  morning,  rising  up  a  great  while  before  day,  he  went  out,  and  departed  into 
a  solitary  .place,  and  there  prayed."— Mark  1 :  35. 

Savior  !  who  didst  here  below, 
Human  woes  and  sorrows  know; 
From  life's  trials  and  its  care, 
Thou  didst  find  relief  in  prayer- 
Human  sympathy  denied, 
None  to  counsel  or  to  guide ; 
In  the  twilight  dim,  alone, 
Thou  didst  seek  thy  Father's  throne/ 

In  a  world  of  pain  and  sin, 
Foes  without  and  foes  within, 
Compassed  round  with  many  a  snare, 
We  find  relief  in  prayer. 


SKETCHES  OF  WESLEY.  67 

Should  we  lean  on  broken  reeds, 
Failing  most  when  most  our  needs; 
Be  thou — once  by  friends  betrayed, 
"Our  supporter  and  our  aid. 

'  If  we  e'er  forsake  thy  way, 
And  in  paths  forbidden  stray, 
Let  thy  spirit  from  above, 
Softly  whisper  of  thy  love. 

Once  redeemed  by  thy  blood, 
Reconciled  by  thee  to  God, 
Banished  let  all  idols  be, 
Fixed  our  hearts  ami  minds  on  J,hee, 

Sinful,  wretched,  poor  and  weak, 

Strength  and  help  from  thee  we  seek.; 

Lead  us  to  the  place  of  prayer, 

Let  us  find  our  Savior  there,  L.  L. 


For  the  Magnolia. 

SKETCHES   OF  WESLEY. -NO.  III. 

*  * 

B¥  RET.  D.  WISE. 

•3\lr,  Wesley^  first  Public  Employments — Curate  of  Jf'roote — He  becomes  a 
College  Tutor — Refuses  the  living  of  Epivortk — Is  appointed  Missionary 
to  Georgia — Anecdote — Mr.  Wesley's  labors — Difficulties — Returns  to 
England. 

MR.  WESLEY  first  officiated  as  a  regular  clergyman  at 
Wroote  in  the  capacity  of  curate  for  his  father,  who  was  the 
incumbent  of  that  living  as  well  as  of  Epworth, 

After  spending  two  years  in  the  curacy,  he  was  recalled  to 
Oxford,  in  virtue  of  a  college  statute  obliging  junior  fellows, 
who  are  chosen  moderators,  to  attend  personally  to  their  du- 
ties, if  the  other  fellows  cannot  officiate  for  them.  This  be- 
ing the  case,  Mr.  Wesley  quitted  the  curacy  at  Wfoote  and 
returned  to  college. 


68  SKETCHES  OF  WESLEY. 

We  now  find  him  successfully  acting  the  part  of  tutor  to 
several  young  gentlemen,  among  whom  was  Mr.  Hervey,  the 
author  of  those  devout  Meditations,  so  familiar  to  the  merest 
tyro  in  English  literature.  He  also  presided  as  moderator  six 
times  a  week  in  the  public  college  disputations,  then  held  in 
Lincoln  College.  This  mode  of  life,  so  congenial  to  his  lit- 
erary tastes,  affording  him  delightful  retirement,  learned  soci- 
ety, opportunity  for  unbroken  study,  and  for  extensive  useful- 
ness among  the  students,  who  were  subsequently  to  have  the 
charge  of  the  best  interests  of  thousands,  he  determined  to 
follow.  Accordingly,  when  his  father,  now  greatly  advanced 
in  years,  proposed  in  1734  to  get  the  living  of  Epworth  trans- 
ferred to  him,  he  declined.  A  pretty  sharp  and  protracted 
correspondence  took  place  between  Mr.  Wesley,  his  father 
and  his  eldest  brother,  Samuel.  But  in  vain.  He  stood  firm 
in  his  purposes,  and  closed  his  reasons  for  preferring  a  college 
life  to  any  other  by  saying ;  "  Now  that  I  can,  as  a  clergy- 
man, better  serve  God  and  his  church  in  my  present  station, 
I  have  all  reasonable  evidence." 

It  was  well  for  the  world  that  he  kept  this  resolution  so  in- 
flexibly. Had  he  settled  himself  at  Epworth  rectory,  in  all 
probability,  his  labors  would  have  been  limited  to  that  parish. 
Though  Mr.  Wesley  knew  not  at  that  time,  that  God  needed 
him  in  another  and  wider  sphere,  yet  without  doubt,  the  hand 
of  God  restrained  him  from  Epworth  parish  that  he  might 
teach  him  to  consider  the  world  his  parish,  and  every  man 
his  neighbor. 

A  circumstance  occurred  in  1735,  which  led  Mr.  Wesley 
to  abandon  his  beloved  retreat  at  Oxford  and  to  enter  a  more 
stirring  and  trying  sphere.  This  was  nothing  less,  than  an 
application  from  the  trustees  of  the  then  colony  of  Georgia, 
from  Dr.  Burton,  his  particular  friend,  and  Mr.  Oglethorpe,. 
governor  of  the  colony,  requesting  him  to  go  with  his  brother 
Charles  (who  was  also  a  tutor  at  Oxford)  as  a  missionary  to 
the  Indians  and  the  colonists.  The  same  noble  desire  to  ac- 
complish the  greatest  good,  which  induced  him  to  decline  be- 
coming the  successor  of  his  father,  led  him  to  accede  to  this 


SKETCHES  OF  WESLEY.  69 

new  proposal.  "  Our  end,"  says  Mr.  Wesley,  "  in  leaving 
our  native  country  was  not  to  avoid  want,  God  having  given 
us  plenty  of  temporal  blessings — but  singly  this,  to  save  our 
souls — to  live  wholly  to  the  glory  of  God." 

Animated  by  this  high-souled  principle,  the  brothers  em- 
barked at  Gravesend,  October,  1735.  Mr.  Charles  Wesley 
going  in  the  capacity  of  secretary  to  Gen.  Oglethorpe,  and 
John  as  missionary  to  the  colony. 

During  the  voyage,  some  of  the  gentlemen  passengers,  who 
were  offended  at  the  gravity  of  the  Wesleys,  offered  them 
some  rudeness  in  presence  of  Gen.  Oglethorpe.  This  in- 
censed the  general,  who  in  a-  very  stern  tone  of  voice  said  ; 
"  What  do  you  mean,  sirs?  Do  you  take  these  gentlemen 
for  tithe-pig  parsons  ?  They  are  gentlemen  of  learning  and 
respectability.  They  are  my  friends,  and  whosoever  offers 
any  affront  to  them  insults  me !"  This  decisive  espousal  of 
their  cause,  secured  them  the  greatest  possible  respect  from 
the  passengers  during  the  remainder  of  the  voyage  to  Georgia. 

There  is  a  good  and  characteristic  anecdote  related  of  Mr. 
Wesley  while  on  the  voyage. 

Hearing  a  noise  one  day  in  the  general's  cabin,  Mr.  Wes- 
ley entered.  The  general  with  great  earnestness  addressed 
him.  "Mr.  Wesley,"  said  he,  "I  have  met  with  a  provoca- 
tion too  great  for  man  to  bear.  You  know,  the  only  wine  I 
drink  is  Cyprus  wine,  as  it  agrees  with  me  the  best  of  any. 
I  therefore  provided  myself  with  several  dozens  of  it,  and 
this  villain  Grimaldi  (his  Italian  servant)  has  drunk  nearly  the 
whole  of  it.  But  I  will  be  revenged.  He  shall  be  tied  hand 
and  foot  and  carried  to  the  man-of-war.  The  rascal  should 
have  taken  care  how  he  used  me  so,  for  I  never  forgive. 

Mr.  W.  fixed  his  expressive  eyes  on  the  general,  and  calmly 
said  ;  "  Then  I  hope,  sir,  you  never  sin." 

The  general  was  confounded.  He  paused.  Then  putting 
his  hand  in  his  pocket,  he  took  out  a  bunch  of  keys,  which 
he  threw  at  the  trembling  Grimaldi,  saying ;  "  There,  villain, 
take  my  keys,  and  behave  better  for  the  future." 

I  cannot  give  the  particulars  of  Mr.  Wesley's  stay  at  Geor- 


70  SKETCHES  OF  WESLEY. 

gia.  It  was  a  valuable  though  painful  school  to  both  Mr.  W. 
and  his  brother.  They  labored  with  excessive  vigilance  for 
the  spiritual  good  of  the  colony  ;  but  the  tightness  with  which 
they  held  the  reins  of '  ecclesiastical  discipline,  their  boldness 
in  reproving  the  colonists  for  their  loose  living,  brought  them 
into  many  severe  trials  and  even  persecutions.  Finding  his 
situation  growing  uncomfortable,  Mr.  Wesley  returned  to 
England  in  1738.  His  brother  Charles  had  preceded  him, 
having  been  sent  home  with  despatches  to  the  government. 

Mr.  Wesley's  reputation  has  suffered  most  unjustly  from 
the  illiberal  statements  of  Lampriere  in  his  biographical  dic- 
tionary, Hale  in  his  history  of  the  United  States,  Phillips  in 
his  life  of  Whitefield  and  others,  who  have  endeavored  to 
spot  his  unblemished  character  with  a  taint  of  criminality. 
They  leave  the  impression  that  he  was  guilty  of  immorality, 
during  his  stay  in  Savannah.  This  is  false,  unqualifiedly 
false.  The  fact  in  the  case  is  simply  this ; 

Mr.  Wesley  became  attached  to  a  Miss  Hopkey,  neice  of 
Mr.  Causton,  a  magistrate  in  the  colony.  Although  it  is  be- 
yond doubt  that  he  never  made  her  an  offer  of  marriage,  it  is 
equally  clear  that  in  his  own  mind  he  seriously  proposed  to 
do  so.  Before  taking  this  important  step,  he  prudently  con- 
sulted several  of  his  religious  friends  as  to  the  suitability  of 
Miss  Hopkey  for  the  responsible  'station  of  a  clergyman's 
wife.  They  all  agreed  she  was  unfit  on  many  accounts,  but 
especially  for  her  defective  religious  character.  Doing  .vio- 
lence to  his  own  feelings,  Mr.  W.  ceased  his  intercourse  with 
the  lady,  who  shortly  after  married  a  gentleman  named  Wil- 
liamson. For  some  improprieties  of  conduct  Mr.  W.  subse- 
quently repelled  this  lady  from  the  communion  table.  Her 
husband  and  uncle  took  up  her  cause  and  prosecuted  Mr.  W. 
for  defaming  her  character.  The  grand  jury  found  a  bill 
against  him.  though  the  minority  drew  up  a  protest  against 
the  proceedings  of  the  majority,  in  which  they  completely 
exculpated  Mr.  W.  from  the  charges  brought  against  him. 
This  protest  was  forwarded  to  the  colonial  trustees,  and  was 
entirely  satisfactory.  Mr.  W.  labored,  for  a  long  time  after 


THE  WIFE  TO  HER  HUSBAND.  71 

this  indictment,  to  procure  a  trial,  but  owing  to  the  influence 
of  Mr.  Causton,  the  magistrate,  he  could  not  succeed ;  and, 
after  giving  public  notice  of  his  intention,  openly  embarked 
for  England. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  Mr.  Wesley  was  somewhat  impru- 
dent in  his  treatment  of  Mrs.  Williamson  and  her  uncle  after 
the  prosecution  commenced.  Without  question  he  spoke 
plainly ;  he  used  strong  language,  and  the  strict  propriety  of 
his  conduct  in  openly  repelling  Mrs.  Williamson  from  the 
communion  table  is  questionable.  But,  beyond  this,  there  is 
not  a  shadow  of  blame  resting  on  the  pure  life  of  this  good 
man ;  and  it  is  unjust  for  authors  who  write  for  the  people  to 
propagate  a  falsehood  in  their  books  which  criminates  the 
founder  of  the  largest  body  of  religionists  in  the  country, 
when  a  little  painstaking  would  put  them  in  possession  of 
abundant  evidence  to  prove  the  unspotted  purity  of  John 
Wesley's  character  during  his  residence  in  Georgia. 


B7  \l 

lib   Hi 


For  the  Magnolia. 

THE  WIFE  TO  HER  HUSBAND  ON  HER  WEDDING  ANNIVERSARY. 

"  I  learned  to  love,  and  at  that  time 
Through  love  I  !earn'd  what  life  is." 

I  LOOK  into  thine  -ey^s,  my  love — 
Those  clear,  dark  eyes  of  thine, 
And  I  seem  to  see  far  down  in  their  depths, 
The  past  and  future  shine. 

The  past — the  dim  and  .shadowy  past — 

Rises  before  me  now, 

And  the  changing  mist  reveals  to  my  view 
A  maid  with  thoughtful  brow. 

I  watch  her  through  the  passing  years, — 

Clouds  gather  o'er  her  way, 
But  her  brow  is  oft  illum'd  with  a  light — 
The  light  of  memory. 


THE  WIFE  TO   HER  HUSBAND. 

She  often  looks  as  if  she  'd  lisp 

A  well-remember'd  tone: 
And  she  sometimes  murmurs  low,  to  herself, 
A  name,  when  all  alone. 

And  ever  in  her  dreams  she  sees 

A  brightly  beaming  glance; 
And  her  beating  heart  is  thrill'd  as  if  touched 
By  magic-thrilling  lance. 

Young  lovers  come  with  words  of  praise, 

And  lovers,  too,  depart; 
For  a  spell,  defying  Time's  rudest  touch, 
Seems  fast  to  bind  her  heart. 

But  now  a  clear  and  steady  light 

Compels  the  mists  to  fly; 

For  the  beaming  glance  of  which  she  has  dream'd 
Is  gazing  in  her  eye. 

With  arms  entwin'd  and  hands  enclasp'd 

The  lovers  meet  my  view, 
And  the  graceful  youth  belov'd  by  the  maid 
Strangely  resembles  you ! 

And  thus  I  sigh'd,  and  thus  I  dream'd 

For  many  weary  years, 

Till  thy  radiant  glance  dispelled  from  my  sou! 
Its  dreams,  its  sighs  and  tears. 

The  past ! — the  bright  and  glitt'ring  past — 

In  golden  hues  is  seen, 
But  the  present  time  is  sweeter  to  me 
Than  e'er  the  past  hath  been. 

Far  down  the  mist  of  coming  years 

A  gladd'ning  ray  doth  shine; 

'Tis  the  glance  which  cheer'd  my  dreams  and  my  life- — 
That  loving  glance  of  thine. 

The  future  can  have  naught  in  store 

Fearful  or  dark  to  me ; 
I  can  meet  with  smiles  the  sun  or  the  storm, 

If  they  may  be  met  with  thet.  M- 


THE    INDIAN    CAPTIVE. 


For  the  Magnolia. 

THE  INDIAN  CAPTIVE. 

BV  THE  TRANSLATOR  OF  MADAM  GUlZO'f's  TALES. 

WEST  of  the  Alleghany  Mountains,  and  south  of  Lake 
Erie,  between  the  thirty-ninth  and  fortieth  degrees  of  lati- 
tude, is  the  mouth  of  a  broad  and  beautiful  river,  the  Musk- 
ingum.  The  magnificent  country  through  which  it  passes 
forms  at  present  the  State  of  Ohio,  one  of  the  most  highly 
cultivated  in  the  Union.  It  was  settled  after  the  revolution- 
ary war,  by  officers  and  soldiers  from  Massachusetts,  and  this 
people  have  rapidly  become  one  of  the  most  wealthy  and 
most  civilized  in  North  America. 

If,  travelling  in  these  picturesque  regions,  you  take  the 
steamboat  at  Marietta,  and  ascend  the  Muskingurn,  disem- 
bark at  the  mouth  of  the  Tuskaraway,  for  it  is  there  that,  in 
1763,  happened  the  strange  adventure  I  am  about  to  relate 
to  you.  The  Tuskaraway  is  a  little  river  whose  flowery  banks 
are  at  present  covered  with  charming  country-seats,'  manu- 
factories, mills,  villages  and  commercial  cities.  One  of  the 
most  beautiful  dwellings  in  the  vicinity  is  that  of  William 
Garakontie,  one  of  the  rich  proprietors  of  the  country.  This 
amiable  old  man.  now  at  the  age  of  eighty-two,  has  preserved 
all  the  vigor  of  manhood ;  and  when  congratulated  upon  itr 
replies  smilingly  that  he  owes  it  to  the  Indian  blood  mingled 
with  the  white  that  flows  in  his  veins.  And  if  you  are  curi- 
ous enough  to  make  an  inquiry  on  this  subject,  far  from  re- 
garding it  as  an  indiscretion,  the  excellent  William  will  take 
you  by  the  hand,  conduct  you  into  a  retired  spot  in  his  mag- 
nificent park,  and  show  you  with  pride  an  old  cabin  of  birch 
bark,  overshadowed  by  an  enormous  and  ancient  linden,  the 
last  son  of  the  forest  which  exists  on  this  highly  cultivated 
estate.  From  this  point  of  view  he  will  request  you  to  notice 
the  immense  and  beautiful  fields  which  entirely  cover  the 
country,  then  say : 


THE    INDIAN    CAPTIVE. 

Eighty  years  ago,  quite  a  different  state  of  things  existed. 
Then  the  axe  of  the  wood-cutter  had  not  yet  resounded  in 
the  untrodden  forests  which  extended  almost  without  inter- 
ruption over  an  entire  country  yet  unknown  to  white  men ; 
active  in  the  depth  of  these  woods  dwelt  the  Indian  natives, 
crowded  together  in  barren  spots  by  European  civilization. 
But  already  these  people,  so  numerous  at  the  time  of  their 
discovery,  had  been  diminished  by  two  scourges  brought  from 
the  new  world — brandy  and  the  smallpox.  The  last  remnants 
of  these  nations,  formerly  so  powerful,  were  grouped  behind 
the  western  declivities  of  the  Allcghanies,  on  the  borders  of 
Lake  Erie,  the  banks  of  Ohio  River,  and  especially  on  those 
of -the  Muskingum.  The  tribes  best  known  were  the  Dela- 
wares,  whose  villages  were  situated  on  the  most  fertile  banks 
of  the  Muskingum ;  the  Senecas,  who  formerly  belonged  to 
the  terrible  Mohawk  league  ;  the  Wyandots,  formerly  driven 
from  the  mountains  of  Onasito  by  the  Cherokces,  and  who 
had  retired  to  the  shores  of  the  Sandusky ;  the  Ottawas,  at 
present  dwelling  between  the  Lakes  Huron  and  Michigan  ; 
the  Shawnees,  who  have  built  their  wigwams  in  the  beautiful 
plains  watered  by  the  Scioto  and  its  tributaries ;  the  Winne- 
bagoes,  whose  principal  nourishment  is  the  wild  rice  which 
grows  on  the  borders  of  their  lakes ;  the  Sanduskys,  Munsys, 
Cagnawagas,  Chickasaws,  Mungoes,  and  other  tribes,  of  whom 
nothing  now  remains  but  the  name.  Behind  the  mountains, 
they  lived  for  a  long  time  in  all  the  simplicity  of  their  savage 
nature,  and  carefully  preserved  the  traditions  and  customs  of 
their  ancestors ;  but  Providence  had  decided  that  their  last 
asylum  should  be  taken  away,  and  by  their  own  fault,  and 
they  -could  not  avoid  their  sad  destiny. 

A  slight  bend  in  the  Tuskaraway  formed  a  kind  of  little 
bay,  around  which  beautiful  fields  extended  their  green  ver- 
dure enamelled  with  the  first  flowers  of  spring,  for  it  was  then 
the  fourth  sun  in  the  moon  of  squirrels.*  At  the  extremity 

*  The  Indians  reckoned  l)y  lunar  months,  or  moons,  and  each  month  was  designated  by 
the  name  of  an  animal  or  a  plant.  The  moon  of  squirrels  corresponded  with  our  month  of 
June ;  they  had  also  a  moon  of  castor,  of  maize,  &c.  Their  days  were  computed  by  suns. 


THE    INDIAN    CAPTIVE.  75 

of  the  bay  rose  the  gentle  and  wooded  declivity  of  a  hill, 
forming,  as  it  vvere,  the  frame-work  of  a  landscape  graceful 
and  picturesque  though  wiJd ;  a  gloomy  forest  of  oak,  ash, 
red  cedar  and  cypress,  formed  the  back-ground  of  the  pic- 
ture. In  the  midst  of  the  plain  rose  a  small  natural  hillock, 
overshadowed  by  the  most  beautiful  trees  of  the  country. 
The  magnolia,  with  its  large  greenish  flowers,  its  fruits  of  co- 
ral hue,  mingled  its  glossy  leaves  with  the  light  foliage  of  the 
acacia ;  the  hickory  and  the  kesketoma  interlaced  their  rami- 
fying branches  covered  with  nuts  too  ligneous  to  be  eaten, 
but  of  which  the  natives  prepared  a  milky  and  refreshing 
beverage  ;  the  white  petals  of  the  evergreen  gordonia  and  the 
odoriferous  flowers  of  the  stetvartia,  peeped  through  the  green 
and  curling  tufts  of  the  young  vine  which  climbed  their  trunks 
and  hung  in  long  festoons,  gently  swayed  by  the  breeze. 

Through  the  thick  foliage  of  the  grove  planted  by  nature, 
appeared  the  roofs  of  three  Indian  wigwams.  The  frame  of 
these  slight  habitations  consisted  of  stakes  from  two  to  three 
metres  in  length,  driven  firmly  into  the  ground,  bearing,  to 
sustain  the  roof,  semi-circles  made  with  the  long  and  pliant 
branches  of  the  chinkapin.  All  this  frame-work  was  entirely 
covered  with  large  strips  of  birch  bark  neatly  sewed  together, 
especially  in  the  part  which  formed  the  roof,  and  the  seams 
were  daubed  with  pitch,  which  rendered  them  impervious  to 
the  rain.  The  door  was  made  of  the  same  bark,  supported 
by  a  little  frame  of  wood  resting  against  two  cross  pieces,  of 
which  one  formed  the  threshold  and  the  other  the  lintel.  In 
the  midst  of  the  roof  was  an  opening,  serving  at  once  as  a 
window  to  allow  the  light  to  enter  and  a  chimney  to  give  vent 
to  the  smoke  of  a  fire  built  in  the  middle  of  the  cabin.  From 
this  opening  hung  a  crooked  stick  which  sustained  over  the 
fire  a  large  copper  cauldron.  The  remainder  of  the  furniture 
consisted  of  some  bearskins  rolled  in  a  corner,  a  carbine  pret- 
tily adorned  with  incrustations  of  bone,  some  vases  and  uten- 
sils of  wood,  an  otterskin  pouch  containing  vermillion,  white 
paint,  and  other  small  articles ;  and  lastly,  several  snares  for 
game.  There  might  also  be  noticed,  suspended  to  the  ceil- 


76  THE    INDIAN    CAPTIVE. 

ing  a  hoop  around  which  were  fastened  human  scalps,  whose 
skin,  painted  red,  had  been  carefully  tanned ;  these  trophies 
of  ferocious  courage  announced  that  the  wigwam  belonged  to 
a  warrior.  Such  are  still  the  dwellings  of  the  Indian  savages. 

Nevertheless,  one  of  the  three  habitations,  the  cottage  near 
which  we  are  now  seated,  differed  a  little  from  the  others. 
Instead  of  being  circular,  like  a  bee-hive,  its  form  was  that 
of  an  elongated  oval ;  its  interior  offered  neither  carbine  nor 
scalps,  nor  any  thing  which  could  announce  the  dwelling  of  a 
warrior,  but  was  of  a  neatness  very  rare  in  those  parts,  and, 
what  was  also  remarkable,  was  divided  by  a  curtain  of  deer- 
skin into  two  small  apartments  ;  the  first  serving  as  a  common 
room,  and  the  farther  one  evidently  a  sleeping-chamber.  It 
was  in  this  cabin  that  I  was  born,  in  1764. 

A  superb  linden  overshadowed  the  latter  wigwam,  and,  on 
a  bank  of  moss  and  turf,  near  the  door,  were  seated  two  in- 
dividuals with  whom  we  must  make  acquaintance.  By  his 
tall  stature,  robust  limbs,  large  black  eyes,  projecting  cheek- 
bones, aquiline  nose,  beardless  chin,  but  especially  by  his  cop- 
per-colored skin,  one  of  them  would  have  been  easily  recog- 
nized as  an  Indian,  even  had  not  his  costume  announced  it. 
He  was  a  youth  apparently  about  twenty-five ;  his  head  was 
shaved  around  his  forehead,  and  his  hair  black  as  a  raven's 
wing,  hung  on  his  neck  but  without  reaching  his  shoulders ; 
on  the  top  of  his  head  rose  a  large  aigrette  of  plumes  of  dif- 
ferent colors,  and  a  long  eagle  feather  was  passed  through  a 
hole  in  each  ear ;  on  his  temples,  on  his  cheeks,  and  below 
his  ears,  some  lines  tattooed  formed  the  figure  of  a  bird, 
rudely  enough  drawn,  but  the  outlines  of  which  were  distinct 
enough  to  show  that  it  was  intended  for  a  duck.  For  cloth- 
ing, the  young  man  wore  a  short  mantle  of  the  skin  of  the 
castor,  thrown  over  his  left  shoulder,  leaving  uncovered  half 
of  his  breast  and  his  right  arm,  and  a  sort  of  tunic,  made  of 
deerskin,  descending  to  his  knees.  His  feet  were  clad  in 
moccasins  without  ornament,  prepared  of  the  rough  skin  of 
the  Canadian  stag.  His  arms,  between  the  shoulder  and  the 
elbow,  were  adorned  with  bracelets  of  silver,  and  from  his 


THE    INDIAN    CAPTIVE.  77 

neck  hung  a  collar  of  wampum.  All  this  was  picturesque 
enough  to  be  worthy  of  description  in  a  novel,  but  I  know 
not  how  to  make  the  name  of  my  hero  acceptable.  I  am 
here  not  as  a  romancer,  but  as  a  historian,  therefore  I  must 
tell  you  the  truth :  my  young  man  was  called  Garakontie, 
which,  in  the  Delaware  language  signifies  the  Duck.  His 
countrymen  had  given  him  this  epithet,  not  because  he  was  a 
skilful  swimmer  and  fisher,  not  because  he  was  born  on  the 
marshy  shores  of  the  Muskingum,  but  simply  because  in  his 
joyous  songs  he  had  the  talent  of  imitating,  to  perfection,  the 
cry  of  a  duck,  which  the  Indians  thought  admirable. 

The  person  seated  at  the  side  of  Garakontie,  was  a  young 
woman  of  twenty  years,  whose  beauty  was  the  more  surpris- 
ing since  it  had  nothing  in  common  with  the  prettiest  girls 
among  the  Delaware  tribe.  Her  skin,  instead  of  being  red 
was  of  a  dazzling  whiteness,  and  the  rose  on  her  cheeks  had 
not  the'smallest  tinge  of  copper  color ;  her  eyes  were  of  azure 
blue,  her  tresses  long  and  silken,  of  the  most  beautiful  brown, 
her  figure  slight  and  graceful,  her  form  slender  and  delicate, 
bearing  no  trace  of  resemblance  to  her  savage  companions, 
and  her  costume  alone  could  have  pointed  her  out  as  an  in- 
habitant of  the  woods.  Her  hair  was  divided  into  four  long 
braids,  of  which  two  fell  in  front,  and  all  four  were  interwo- 
ven with  yellow,  red  and  blue  beads ;  a  species  of  tunic  of 
flexible  and  light  skin,  covered  her  whole  person,  and  was 
adorned  at  the  breast,  the  cuffs  and  round  the  bottom,  by 
brilliant  and  delicately  pointed  furs.  A  broad  red  girdle,  or- 
namented with  four  rows  of  glass  beads,  was  fastened  around 
her  waist ;  she  wore  elegant  moccasins  of  goatskin,  embroid- 
ered with  quills  of  the  hedgehog,  and  garnished  with  silver 
bells.  Over  all  this,  she  had  thrown  a  little  mantle  of  red 
woollen,  evidently  of  European  fabric.  But  what  was  most 
extraordinary  among  savages,  was  a  little  golden  cross,  which, 
sustained  by  a  necklace  of  beads,  hung  from  her  neck.  This 
young  girl  was  called  Kerry-Moyamee,  which  may  be  trans- 
lated literally  by  '•'  Woman  of  the  East." 

At  the  moment  in  which  we  find  her  seated  at  the  door  of 


78  THE    INDIAN    CAPTIVE. 

her  wigwam,  her  beautiful  blue  eyes  are  fixed  on  a  piece  of 
white  bark,  on  which  are  traced  some  characters. 
'  "  Moyamee,"  said  the  young  man,  "  I  do  not  understand 
how,  with  a  quill  in  thy  delicate  fingers,  thou  canst  arrest,  on 
a  piece  of  bark,  my  words,  which  fly  swifter  than  the  spar- 
row. Thou  sayest  to  them  :  Remain  here  !  and  they  remain, 
Every  time  thou  sayest  to  the  dead  bark  :  Repeat  to  me  those 
thoughts!  it  repeats  them  to  thee.  Why  can  I  not  do  the 
same  ?  How  can  these  little  black  arrows  record  the  living 
words  of  an  absent  man,  making, him  speak  without  opening 
his  mouth  ?  Is  it  that  thine  eyes  perceive  what  mine  cannot, 
or  have  these  little  figures  a  voice  which  speaks  to  thine  ears 
alone  ?  Let  us  see.  I  do  not  understand  them ;  dost  thou  ?" 

"No,"  replied  the  young  girl,  smilingly. 

"  Well !  if  they  are  as  dumb  to  thee  as  to  me,  how  hast 
thou  then  been  able  to  repeat  word  for  word  what  I  have  said 
to  thee  ?  Is  thy  memory  better  than  mine  ?" 

"No,  brother." 

"  Then  I  cannot  comprehend  it.  Has  the  Great  Spirit 
taught  thee  this  art  of  the  white  men  ?  Let  us  see,  Moya- 
mee ;  make  this  piece  of  bark  repeat  what  I  have  told  thee 
for  many  moons.'' 

Then  the  young  girl  recalling  to  mind  that  in  the  same  spot 
where  they  now  were,  Garakontie  had  landed  holding  in  his 
hand  a  flaming  brand,  began  to  read  what  she  had  then  writ- 
ten :  "  Here  is  my  brand  !  thou  knowest  its  meaning  ;  I  have 
taken  it  from  my  own  fire,  and  not  from  that  of  another. 
Open  thy  mouth,  blow  upon  it  the  breath  of  consent,  and 
thou  wilt  render  me  happy.  Thou  easiest  down  thy  eyes  ;  I 
continue.  To  convince  thee  that  I  am  brave,  look  at  the  han- 
dle of  my  tomahawk,  thou  wilt  see  there  the  marks  of  seven 
bloody  scalps.  But  if,  like  a  black  and  thick  cloud  which 
suddenly  obscures  the  sunlight,  doubt  darkens  thy  mind,  fol- 
low me,  I  will  show  them  to  thee  ;  they  are  suspended  in  my 
wigwam.  Thou  shalt  see  there,  also,  smoking  meat,  broiled 
fish,  bearskins  and  furs  in  abundance.  Wouldst  thou  have 
a  warrior,  take  me.  Wouldst  thou  have  an  indefatigable 


THE    INDIAN    CAPTIVE.  79 

hunter  ?  Hunger  shall  never  knock  at  thy  door.  Dost  thou 
wish  for  a  patient  and  cunning  fisher  ?  Come  this  evening 
into  my  canoe,  by  the  moonlight,  thou  shall  see  whether  I 
know  how  to  catch  the  red-finned  salmon-,  the  speckled  trout 
and  the  silvery  eel.  If  the  rains  of  summer  or  the  cold  of 
winter  enter  thy  wigwam,  I  can  drive  them  thence ;  bark  is 
not  wanting  in  the  woods,  and  I  have  hands.  Thou  dost  not 
reply  ;  I  have  ceased.  May  I  then  return  and  bring  thee  my 
brand  ?"  * 

"  These  are  my  own  words,"  cried  the  young  warrior, 
"  and  thou  couldst  not  repeat  them,  did  not  the  Great  Spirit 
breathe  them  into  the  ear  of  the  white  people  who  possess 
knowledge.  Why  has  the  Great  Spirit  forgotten  his  children 
of  Erie  for  those  of  ihe  land  of  Onas  ?"  f  |  ..li?:, 

"  Brother,"  replied  Moyamee,  "  like  the  Delawares,  the 
men  of  the  East,  before  crossing  the  great  salt  lake,  lived  in 
the  forests  and  were  hunters.  Chance  led  them  to  the  dis- 
covery of  iron,  and  from  this  discovery  arose  much  of  their 
civilization  and  of  their  knowledge.  If  they  were  unac- 
quainted with  the  use  of  iron,  they  might  be  still  like  us,  nav- 
igating canoes,  hunting  in  their  forests,  never  having  traversed 
the  great  lake,  or  invented  writing.  Why  hast  not  thou,  war- 
rior of  the  West,  gathered  the  iron  upon  which  thou  tread- 
est?" 

'•'  No,  Moyamee,  no  !  There  are  above  the  clouds  two 
Ockimaws,  the  one  great  and  powerful,  whose  dwelling  is 
near  the  country  of  light,  on  the  other  side  of  the  salt  lake, 
and  the  white  men  are  his  children ;  the  other  is  smaller  and 
weaker,  and  he  dwells  in  the  sky  of  our  forests.  All  this  is 
as  the  dark  night,  through  which  the  eyes  of  my  spirit  can 
perceive  nothing." 

.  On  finishing  these  words,  the  young  man  sighed  and  cov- 
ered his  face  with  his  hands.     Then  Moyamee  approached 
him,  placed  her  little  hand  on  his  arm  and  said  in  a  voice 
slightly  tremulous : 
• 

*  Formula  of  a  demand  in  marriage,  literally  translated, 
j  Onas  was  the  Indian  name  for  Penn. 


80  THE    INDIAN    CAPTIVE. 

•'<  Garakontie,  there  is  but  one  Ockimaw,  and  all  men  are 
his  children  ;  for  am  not  I,  the  daughter  of  Onas,  thy  sister, 
thy  sister  who  loves  thee  ?"  added  she  in  a  still  softer  tone. 

"  Thy  mouth  speaks  well,  Moyamee  ;  thy  words  are  gentle 
as  the  breeze  of  spring ;  but  thy  heart  is  deaf.  Hast  thou 
not  refused  to  breathe  on  my  flaming  brand  ?" 

"  I  have  told  thee ;  I  will  never  dwell  in  the  wigwam  of  a 
man  who  adores  not  the  Ockimaw  of  my  fathers,  and  who 
regards  not  his  wife  as  his  equal." 

"  Knowest  thou  not  that  the  Good  Spirit  is  too  far  away  to 
know  what  is  passing  on  earth,  and  that  the  Evil  Spirit,  who 
dwells  in  the  clouds  of  night,  laughs  at  our  misfortunes  ?  As 
for  thyself,  Moyamee,  can  I  bear  thee  on  the  wings  of  an  eagle, 
can  I  raise  thee  as  high  as  one  of  our  mountains  ?  Look  at 
thy  little  hands,  white  as  the  flower  of  the  atamasco.  and  tell 
me  whether  they  can  wield  the  tomahawk ;  if  thy  delicate 
feet  could  chase  the  bear  through  forests  full  of  thorns,  or  in 
the  rocky  mountain  paths.  The  timid  dove  must  sigh  in  the 
tulip  tree,  and  the  eagle  hover  above  the  clouds." 

Then  the  young  girl  withdrew  her  white  hand  from  the 
arm  of  the  Indian  chief,  and  answered  him  thus : 

"  Yes,  thou  thinkest  like  the  wise  man  who  said  before  the 
council  fire :  <  He  who  would  strike  his  enemy  forcibly  and 
surely,  must  have  long  turned  his  back  upon  the  society  of  a 
woman  !'  Garakontie,  thou  lovest  me  not !" 

"  Moyamee,  I  hear  the  word,  yet  the  breath  of  truth  does 
not  enter  my  ear.  My  spirit  is  as  firm  as  that  of  the  wise 
man,  but  my  heart  sighs.  I  am  alone  in  my  wigwam ;  my 
bearskin  is  cold,  my  fire  extinguished,  the  cinders  of  my 
heartji  dispersed,  and  I  have  no  courage  to  fill  my  kettle. 
When  one  hunts  or  fishes  for  himself  only,  can  one  be  as  pa- 
tient as  when  one  hunts  or  fishes  to  nourish  his  wife  ?  I  have 
not  loved  until  now  without  having  been  often  struck  by  the 
arrows  of  the  Evil  Spirit ;  in  my  lifetime  I  have  shed  more 
blood  than  tears ;  tears  should  fall  only  from  the  eyes  of  wo- 
men, and  never  from  those  of  a  warrior  who  has  faced  fear- 
lessly danger  and  death !  yet,  Moyamee,  look ! !" 


THE    INDIAN    CAPTIVE.  81 

The  warrior  took  his  hands  from  his  face  and  showed  his 
cheeks,  down  which  the  tears  were  fast  trickling.  Then  the 
young  girl  sprang  towards  him. 

"  Oh,  brother  !  brother  !"  said  she,  «  open  thine  ear  and 
hear  what  my  heart  says :  let  my  words  be  like  the  breeze  of 
morning  when  it  drinks  the  dew  which  the  night  sheds  drop 
by  drop  on  the  flowers  of  the  meadow  !  Knowest  thou  not 
that  thy  sister,  like  thyself,  is  a  child  of  the  woods?  Why 
then  weepest  thou  before  her  ?  Garakontie,  when  thou  cast- 
est  thy  hook  into  the  lake  by  moonlight  thou  waitest  for  the 
bite  of  the  salmon  ;  when  thou  openest  a  hole  in  the  ice  of 
th.e  Tuskaraway,  thou  tarriest  until  the  muskrat  comes  hither 
to  breathe ;  when  thou  placest  thyself  in  ambush  behind  the 
hemlock  tree,  one  hand  on  thy  knife,  the  other  on  thy  car- 
bine, thou  awaitest  the  coming  of  the  enemy,  and  all  this  be- 
cause thou  hast  the  patience  of  a  true  warrior.  Why  then 
does  patience  forsake  thee  when  thou  art  thinking  of  Moya- 
mee  ?  Have  I  said  that  I  love  thee  not  ?  No.  Have  I  said, 
I  will  never  breathe  on  thy  brand,  never  kindle  the  fire  of  thy 
wigwam,  never  seek  in  the  woods  the  game  thou  hast  killed  ? 
No.  But  I  have  said :  Adore  the  Ockimaw  of  my  fathers, 
and  I  will  be  thy  wife  because  I  love  thee.  Therefore,  cease 
to  weep,  assume  thy  manhood,  and  sing  me  the  war-song,  for 
the  timid  daughters  of  the  East  love  the  valiant  and  brave." 

Garakontie  rose,  and  whirling  his  tomahawk  around  his 
head,  commenced  his  wild  song. 

"  The  chief  of  the  land  of  Onas  came  to  the  sagamore  of 
the  Delawares,  and  said  to  him  :  Custaloga,  sell  to  the  white 
men  the  lands  which  border  on  the  Ohio  and  the  Muskingum  ; 
I  will  give  thee  in  exchange  vermillion  to  paint  thy  warriors, 
carbines  to  kill  bisons,  and  fire-water  to  rejoice  thy  heart. 
Custaloga,  the  great  sagamore  of  the  Delawares,  replied  : 
These  lands  are  the  grounds  of  our  villages,  in  which  were 
born  the  ancestors  of  our  fathers  and  our  fathers  also.  Can 
we  say  to  our  old  men  :  Roll  up  thy  bearskins,  extinguish  thy 
fires,  embark  in  thy  canoes,  and  come  with  us  to  build  thy 
wigwams  far  from  hence  ?  Can  we  say  to  the  venerable  bones 

VOL.  II.  6 


82  THE    INDIAN    CAPTIVE. 

which  repose  under  the  neighboring  trees :  Rise,  quit  your 
tombs,  and  follow  us  upon  a  foreign  soil  ?  Then  the  white 
chief  returned  to  the  land  of  Onas,  but  he  sent  hither  his 
people,  who  crossed  the  Alleghanies,  not  like  the  eagle  which 
soars  over  the  mountains,  but  like  the  serpent  which  glides 
under  the  grass.  They  said  :  Brothers,  we  are  hungry,  and 
we  said  to  them,  eat,  there  are  our  kettles  ;  warm  yourselves, 
there  are  our  fires ;  sleep,  there  are  our  bearskins.  Then 
they  began  to  build  forts  at  the  mouths  of  our  rivers  and  in 
our  hunting-grounds  under  pretext  of  establishing  magazines 
for  furs  ;  they  have  frightened  away  the  game  from  our  woods 
and  the  fish  from  our  lakes ;  they  have  cut  down  our  trees. 
destroyed  our  forests,  then,  in  digging  the  earth  to  plant  their 
little  grains,  they  have  exposed  to  the  sun,  to  the  rain  and  to 
the  snow,  the  white  bones  of  our  ancestry.  Then  we  saw 
that  the  bearded  men  were  traitors  and  liars,  and  from  the 
shores  of  Michigan  and  Erie  to  the  banks  of  the  Ohio  and 
Muskingum,  the  war-cry  resounded  in  the  woods  and  on  the 
mountains.  I  took  my  tomahawk  and  my  carbine,  and,  with 
the  warriors  of  twenty  powerful  nations,  I  raised  the  war-cry, 
I  passed  the  Ohio,  and  entered  the  land  of  Onas,  while  my 
brothers,  the  knife  in  one  hand  and  the  torch  in  the  other, 
burned  the  forts  on  the  lakes  and  on  the  rivers.  I  am  a  great 
warrior,  and  my  arm  is  strong.  I  have  burned  like  the  light- 
ning, and,  like  the  black  bear,  broken  the  skull  of  my  ene- 
mies. For  three  moons  I  carried  despair  and  terror  to  the 
heart  of  the  white  man,  stealing  through  the  shadows  of  night 
like  the  panther,  gliding  through  the  thickets  like  the  rattle- 
snake. Twenty  times  when  darkness  fled  before  the  flame 
which  my  birch  had  lighted,  have  I  uttered  my  war-cry. 

"  One  night,  when  the  moon  was  rising,  I  crept  out  from  a 
gloomy  forest,  and  sharpened  my  knife  on  the  rock.  My 
brothers  and  I  advanced  like  the  gray  wolf  which  snuffs  the 
breeze  and  darts  through  the  brush.  All  slept  around  us, 
save  hatred  and  vengeance.  Already  we  perceived  a  home 
of  the  white  man  ;  already  the  dogs  had  given  the  alarm, 
when  my  imprudent  friends,  carried  away  by  their  intrepidity, 


THE    INDIAN    CAPTIVE.  83 

made  the  mountains  echo  with  their  terrible  war-cry.  We 
sprang  forward  with  lifted  tomahawk,  but  it  was  too  late  ! — 
the  bearded  men  had  fled  precipitately,  leaving  behind  them 
their  cattle  and  their  riches,  thinking  only  of  saving  life. 
Garakontie  is  a  great  warrior  !  his  arm  is  strong,  but  he  strikes 
only  his  enemies.  I  looked  on  in  silence  at  the  tongues  of 
flame  which  rose  from  the  cottage  roof,  writhing  in  the  air,  in 
the  midst  of  a  cloud  of  smoke,  like  fire-serpents,  and  I  ut- 
tered my  war-cry :  War-whoop  !  war-whoop  ! 

"  Then  another  cry,  piercing  as  an  arrow,  issued  from  the 
midst  of  the  crackling  flames,  and  I  feared  to  lose  a  scalp. 
I  sprang  through  the  fire,  and  immediately  afterwards  depos- 
ited on  the  grass  moist  with  dew,  a  young  girl  of  thirteen 
summers.  My  brothers  drew  from  their  girdles  the  scalping- 
knives,  but  the  breath  of  my  word  entered  their  ears.  This 
scalp  belongs  to  me,  I  said,  and  Garakontie  is  a  strong  war- 
rior, who  does  not  make  war  upon  women ;  this  is  mine ;  let 
him  who  dares  dispute  it  approach,  and  he  shall  see  whether 
my  blows  are  strong  and  sure.  I  have  spoken.  No  one  ad- 
vanced ;  I  took  the  child  in  my  arms,  and  cautious  as  the 
lynx  which  bears  away  the  feeble  fawn,  I  traversed  the  woods, 
the  mountains,  the  streams,  the  rivers,  and  deposited  my  in- 
nocent prey  on  the  threshold  of  my  father's  wigwam,  uttering 
my  cry  of  war  and  victory." 

The  Indian  ceased  his  song,  and  the  young  girl,  softened, 
extended  her  hand  towards  him. 

"  Truth  has  come  forth  from  thy  lips,  Garakontie,  and  I  will 
remember,  even  Jn  the  land  of  spirits,  that  I  have  twice  owed 
my  life  to  thee.  Come,  see,"  said  she,  drawing  from  her  bo- 
som the  roll  of  bark :  "  all  which  thou  and  thy  family  have 
done  for  me  is  written  here." 

"I  pray  thee,  Moyamee,  make  the  bark  speak  by  thy 
mouth,  that  my  ear  may  comprehend." 

'- : Listen  then:" 

"  Marie  was  desolate  at  being  borne  away  from  the  parents 
who  cherished  her." 

"  Marie  !"  interrupted  Garakontie. 


84  THE    INDIAN    CAPTIVE. 

"  Marie  was  my  name  before  I  came  to  dwell  in  the  woods/' 

"  Continue." 

"  She  trembled  in  the  arms  of  the  red  warrior,  who  bore  her 
along  as  gently  as  the  autumn  wind  when  it  whirls  in  the  air 
the  dried  leaves  of  the  magnolia.  She  was  afraid  during  the 
day,  because  then  she  saw  the  dark  and  brilliant  eyes  of  the 
young  warrior ;  and  at  night,  reposing  in  the  leafy  cabin,  on 
the  moss  of  the  forest,  she  was  afraid  because  she  saw  him 
not,  for  he  watched  without  for  the  safety  of  his  prisoner. 
Fatigued,  exhausted  with  grief,  Marie  arrived,  and  knelt, 
clasping  her  hands,  on  the  threshold  of  the  wigwam  of  the 
Great  Castor.  The  Great  Catsor  is  wise  and  good  ;  he  is  the 
sachem  and  the  father  of  Garakontie.  When  he  saw  the 
poor  Marie  stretch  forth  her  hands,  he  passed  around  her 
neck  a  collar  of  wampum  in  sign  of  adoption.  Daughter  of 
the  East,  said  he,  rise  ;  prisoner  as  thou  art,  I  loose  thy  bonds : 
have  not  an  evil  heart  towards  us.  Soon  thou  wilt  be  con- 
soled for  the  loss  of  thy  friends  and  of  thy  country.  To-day 
I  adopt  thee  as  my  daughter,  and  thou  art  a  Delaware  child  ; 
my  fire  and  my  kettle  are  thine.  Welcome  then,  from  what- 
ever place  thou  comest !  rest  thy  weary  limbs  on  this  bear- 
skin ;  warm  thyself,  eat,  and  to-morrow  thy  brother  and  thy 
father  will  build  thee  a  wigwam  by  the  side  of  theirs. 

"Thus  spake  the  sachem  to  Moyamee,  and  from  that  time, 
the  dark  night  which  obscured  her  mind,  the  grief  which 
gnawed  at  her  heart,  passed  away  like  the  sighing  wind,  like 
the  voice  of  echo  which  is  lost  among  the  mountains.  But 
her  affection  for  her  father,  for  her  brother  and  for  the  Dela- 
ware nation,  will  never  pass  away,  for  she  is  not  blind  nor 
ungrateful." 

"  Ah  !"  cried  the  warrior,  "  it  is  not  the  bark  but  thyself 
which  has  said  these  last  words." 

"No!  it  is  the  bark." 

"  Well,  give  me  this  bark,  and  I  will  preserve  it  carefully. 
Perhaps  one  day  it  will  speak  to  me  as  it  speaks  to  thee. 
Shouldest  thou  ever  return  to  the  spot  where  the  bones  of  thy 
ancestors  are  sleeping,  then,  alone,  sad  and  old,  I  will  come 


THE    INDIAN    CAPTIVE.  85 

and  seat  myself  under  this  great  tree  where  we  are  sitting  to- 
day, and  perhaps  the  precious  bark  will  relate  to  me  past 
dreams  of  happiness  and  the  last  words  of  Moyamee." 

Let  us  leave  these  young  people  for  a  moment,  and  look  at 
the  results  of  the  expedition  to  which  Garakontie  alluded  in 
his  war-song.  As  soon  as  the  news  of  the  devastation  com- 
mitted by  the  Indians  along  the  whole  frontiers  reached  Phil- 
adelphia, desolation  was  in  every  heart.  They  nevertheless 
learned  that  Detroit  and  Fort  Pitt  had  repulsed  the  savages, 
who  had  not  dared  to  attack  Niagara,  because  it  was  defended 
by  formidable  artillery.  A  small  detachment  was  confided  to 
General  Bouquet,  and  the  latter  immediately  departed  to  re- 
press the  invasion  and  to  carry  succor  to  Fort  Pitt.  He  tra- 
versed the  high  chain  of  the  Alleghanies,  and  had  hardly 
passed  the  dangerous  defile  of  Turtle  Creek,  and  arrived  at 
Bushy  Run,  when  the  savages,  with  frightful  yells,  attacked 
him  in  front  and  on  each  side.  Nothing  but  the  bravery  and 
coolness  of  the  men,  and  the  skill  of  the  general  in  deceiving 
the  indefatigable  vigilance  and  eluding  the  snares  of  the  ene- 
my, could  have  resisted  the  frightful  impetuosity  of  their  suc- 
cessive attacks ;  never,  before,  had  they  been  so  audacious 
and  so  formidable.  The  general  lost  many  of  his  soldiers, 
but  at  length  gained  the  victory. 

Wishing  to  profit  by  the  terror  with  which  this  memorable 
defeat  had  inspired  the  Indians,  he  resolved  to  pass  the  Ohio, 
and  to  penetrate  as  far  as  the  forks  of  the  Muskingum,  from 
whence  he  could  attack  the  villages  of  the  Mingoes,  Wyan- 
dots,  Delawares,  and  even  those  of  the  Shawanese,  on  the 
Scioto,  though  situated  eighty  miles  beyond.  He  therefore 
set  out  at  the  head  of  fifteen  hundred  infantry  and  a  squad- 
ron of  horsemen.  At  the  end  of  a  march  of  six  days,  he 
reached  the  Tuskarora,  without  having  been  seriously  an- 
noyed by  the  enemy. 

Profoundly  astonished  at  seeing  themselves  attacked  by 
their  own  firesides,  which  till  this  day  they  had  believed  in- 
accessible to  European  troops,  these  proud  children  of  Nature 
determined  to  solicit  a  conference,  and  the  general  consented. 


86  LETTERS  FROM  EUROPE. 

But  he  soon  perceived  that  the  Indian  chiefs  only  sought  to 
gain  time  to  famish  the  army  and  cut  them  to  pieces  on  their 
return.  He  broke  off  the  parley,  and  a  week  afterwards  had 
penetrated  as  far  as  the  forks  of  the  Muskingum,  seventy 
miles  from  its  mouth.  This  bold  march  contributed  not  a  lit- 
tle finally  to  determine  the  nations  to  listen  more  favorably  to 
the  conditions  which  the  general  had  imposed  on  them.  One 
of  these  conditions  was  that  they  should  yield  to  him,  in  his. 
camp,  all  the  prisoners  whom  they  had  taken,  not  only  in  their 
last  invasion,  but  during  preceding  years. 

[Continued.] 


For  the  Magnolia. 

LETTERS   FROM  EUROPE-NO.   III. 

IN  our  last  number  we  gave  part  of  a  letter  from  London,  describing  Ike 
City  Road  Chapel  and  its  monuments.  The  following  is  the  remainder  of 
that  sketch.  These  notes  will  not  only  be  interesting  to  those  of  our  sub 
scribers  who  belong  to  the  denomination  to  whose  history  the  great  names 
they  record  pertain,  but  all  our  Christian  readers  will  doubtless  be  enter- 
tained by  them,  for  the  great  characters  commemorated  at  City  Road  are 
the  common  property  of  the  Christian  world. — ED. 

Dr.  Coke's  Monument— Dr.  Mam  Clarke's— Richard    Watson's— Oihcr 
Tablets— Bunhill  Fields. 

Beneath  the  tablet  of  Charles  Wesley,  is  the  monument  of 
the  celebrated  first  Bishop  of  American  Methodism,  and  father 
of  the  Wesleyan  Missions — Dr.  Coke.  It  is  of  the  same 
form  as  that  of  Fletchere,  to  which  its  position  corresponds. 
The  device  in  the  arch  at  the  top  differs  from  Fletchere's, 
and  is  wrought  with  exquisite  taste.  In  the  centre  is  an  altar 
bearing  a  scroll,  the  unrolled  part  of  which  extends  down  it- 
front  to  its  base.  On  the  scroll  is  inscribed — 


LETTERS  FROM  EUROPE.  87 

Ethiopia 

Shall  soon  stretch  out 

Her  hands 

Unto    God, 

And  the  isles 

Shall  wait 
For  his  law. 

On  the  left  of  the  altar,  reclines  the  figure  of  an  African, 
pointing  to  the  first  text,  and  on  the  right  rests  a  Ceylonese, 
reading  the  Scriptures.  These  figures  indicate  the  two  chief 
mission  fields  planned  by  the  doctor,  viz.  The  West  Indies 
and  East  Indies.  I  give  you  the  whole  epitaph ;  though  long, 
it  is  excellent. 

Sacred  to  the  Memory 
Of  Rev.  Thomas  Coke,  LL.  D., 

Of  Jesus   College,   Oxford, 
Who  was  born  at  Brecon,  7  Sep.,  1747, 

And  died  3  May,  1814. 

After  a  zealous  ministry  of  several  years, 

In  the  established  church,  he  .gave  up  himself, 

A.  D.,  1784,  to  the  direction  of  Rev.  John  Wesley, 

And  did  the  work  of  an  evangelist  with 

Great  success  in  various  parts  of  Great  Britain 

And  Ireland.     He  was  appointed  A.  D.,  1784, 

The  first  superintendent  of  the  Methodist  Episcopal  Church 

In  America.     To  him  were  also  confided 

The  foreign  Missions  of  the  Methodists;  in  support 

Of  which  he  expended  nearly  all  his  patrimonial 

Fortune,  and  encountered  toils  and  self-denials, 

Which  the  Christian  world  beheld  with  admiration. 

By  the  blessing  of  God  on  the  missions  to  the 

Negroes,  commenced  by  him,  1766,  fifteen 

Thousand  persons  had  been  formed  before 

His  death,  into  religious  societies,  and  a  foundation 

Laid  for  the  civilization  and  salvation  of  that 
Degraded  class  of  human  beings.     To  the  negro 

Race  upon  their  native  continent,  as  well  as 

In  the  islands  of  their  bondage,  his  compassion 

Was  extended,  and  he  set  the  first  example 

In  modern  days,  of  efforts  for  the 

Spiritual  emancipation  of  Western  Africa. 

After  crossing  the  Atlantic  eighteen  times 

In  the  service  of  the  souls  of  men,  his  spirit 

Was  stirred  within  him  to  take  a  part  in 
The  noble  enterprise  of  evangelizing  British  India; 

And  he  sailed  from  England,  Aug.,  1813,  as 

The  leader  of  the  first  Methodist  Missions  sent 

To   Ceylon.     But   this   "burning   and   shining 

Light,"  which  in  the  Western    world    had 

Guided  thousands  into  the  paths  of  peace, 

Had  now  fulfilled  its  course,  and  suddenly, 

Yet  rich  in  evening  splendor,  sunk 
Into  the  shades  of  mortality.  'He  died  on 

The  voyage,  and  his  remains  were 
Committed  to  the  great  deep,  until  the 


88  LETTERS  FROM  EUROPE. 

Sea  shall   give   up  her    dead.     His    days 

Were  past,  but  his  purposes  were  not  broken 

Off;  the  wovk  which  he  had  planned  has 

Been  made  to  prosper,  and  through  the 

Preaching  of  the  Gospel,  the  circulation  of  the 

Scriptures  in  the  native  tongues,  and  the 

Establishment  of  Christian  schools,  many  once 

Deluded  CeyloDese,  bave  changed  the  wretchedness 

Of  art  atheistic  creed,  and  the  worship  of  idols 

And  of  devils,  for  the  light  and  the  comfort  of 

True  religion.     The  same  love  of  Christ  which  made 

Him  long  tne  advocate  and  pattern  of  exertion 

In  foreign  lands  constrained  him  also  to  works 

Of  pious    charity  at  home.     Into  many  neglected 

Districts  of  England,  Wales  and  Ireland,  the 

Means  of  grace  were  carried  by  his  private 

Bounty  or  through  his  public  influence  ; 

And  his  praise  is  in  all  the  churches." 

This  monument  was  erected,  A.  D.,  1822,  at 

The  expense  of  the  Methodist  ministers 

And  missionaries,  as  a  record  of  their 

Respectful  gratitude  for  the  disinterested 

Services,,  the  eminent  usefulness  and  the 

Long-tried  and  faithful  attachment  of 

Their  now  glorified  friend.     "  He  that  winnetu. 

Souls  is  wise." 

Beneath  the  slab  containing  the  above  inscription,  is  a 
small  medallion  piece  similar  to  that  on  the  opposite  monu- 
ment to  Ftetchere.  The  device  represents  the  sun  rising 
from  the  waves  of  the  sea. 

Under  the  slab  to  the  memory  of  Coke,  is  one  to  the  fa- 
mous scholar,  Dr.  Adam  Clarke.  It  is  precisely  the  same  as 
that  of  Benson's,  which  corresponds  to  it  on  the  opposite 
side,  except  that,  instead  of  the  butterfly  and  chrysalis,  it  has 
some  brief  phrases  in  Greek  and  Hebrew.  The  following  is 
the  great  commentator's  epitaph  : 

In  memory  of 
Adam  Clarke,  LL.  D.,  F.  A.  S.,  &e. 

A  man. 

Of  remarkable  mental  vigor, 

Of  almost  unparalleled  industry, 

And  of  extended  and  varied  learning^ 

A  Christian 

Of  deep  and  steadfast  piety,. 
Firmly  attached  to  the  essential  doctrines 
And  discipline  of  WesTeyan  Methodism  5. 

A  preacher 
Eminently  evangelical,  popular  and  useful, 

For  more  than  half  a  century. 

His  praise  is  in  all  the  churches, 

INatus  Circiter,  1760. 

Obiit.  1832. 


LETTERS  FROM  EUROPE.  89 

Immediately  outside  of  the  altar  stands,  against  the  edge 
of  the  alcove,  the  monument  of  that  finest  intellect  of  Wes- 
leyan  Methodism,  Richard  Watson.  It  is  a  square  'pedestal 
about  four  feet  high,  sustaining  a  round  pillar  of  fine  white 
marble,  which  is  wrought  at  its  top  and  base  with  garlands, 
and  surmounted  by  an  urn.  The  whole  monument  is  a  beau- 
tiful piece  of  workmanship  and  a  worthy  tribute  to  the  excel- 
lent man  whom  it  commemorates.  On  the  pillar  is  inscribed  : 

Sacred  to  the  memory  of 

Richard  Watson,  • 

Born  1781. 
Died   1833. 

On  the  pedestal  is  the  following : 

In  him  were  united 
Unbounded  power  of  imagination, 

A  pure  and  correct  taste, 
A  sound  and  discriminating  judgment, 

A  forcible  and  graceful  elocution, 
Great  dignity  and  simplicity  of  manners, 

And  a  spirit  eminently  generous. 
He  preached  the  gospel  of  the  grace  of  God 

With  an  ability  seldom  equalled, 

Adorned  it  by  a  holy  and  upright  life, 

And  illustrated  and  defended  its  principles, 

In  several  invaluable  publications. 

Constrained  by   the   love    of  Christ 

With  immolated  ardor  he  pursued  his  labors 

As  a  minister,  a  writer  and  an  advocate 

Of  missions,  in  the  midst  of  pain 

And  wasting  disease  till  called  to  his 

Final  reward,  leaving  to  posterity  a 

Bright  example  of  sanctified 

Talent  and  genius. 

There  are  nine  other  monuments  along  the  sides  of  the 
church.  Indeed  all  the  spaces  between  the  windows  on  one 
side  are  occupied  by  them,  and  a  part  on  the  other  also.  One 
of  these  is  to  the  memory  of  Joseph  Butterworth,  the  brother- 
in-law  of  Adam  Clarke ;  one,  also,  is  to  Butterworth's  wife. 
Both  are  graceful  tablets  with  medallion  likenesses.  Others 
are  to  class-leaders,  stewards,  and  other  eminent  members  of 
the  church.  This  chapel  may  be  considered  the  cathedral  of 
Methodism.  Its  associations  are  most  impressive.  Wesley 
and  most  of  the  worthies  whose  names  are  recorded  in  the 
history  of  Methodism,  have  proclaimed  in  it  the  word  of  life, 


90  THE    FISHING    PARTY. 

and  every  object  in  the  consecrated  temple,  seems  instinct 
with  their  memories. 

•  Immediately  opposite  this  chapel  is  another  memorable 
place  of  the  dead,  the  celebrated  "  Bunhill  Fields"  burial- 
ground,  the  ancient  place  of  interment  for  the  dissenters.  It 
contains  the  ashes  and  monuments  of  Bunyan,  Watts,  Owen, 
&c.  "  What  a  spectacle  !"  said  our  venerable  friend,  Mr 
Reese,  as  we  stood  between  the  two  places.  "  What  a  spec- 
ta,cle  will  these  few  acres  present  on  the  morning  of  the  res- 
urrection !  -Few  places  on  earth  contain  more  sacred  dust." 

Yours,  &c.  J. 


For  the  Magnolia. 

THE  FISHING  PARTY  AND  A  WALK  IN  THE  WOODS. 

BY    ANNE    T.    WILBUR. 

"  Blessed  we  sometimes  arc  !  and  I  am  now 
Happy  in  quiet  feelings  ;  for  the  tones 
Of  a  most  pleasant  company  of  friends 
Were  in  my  ear  but  now,  and  gentle  thought 
From  spirits  whose  high  character  I  know; 
And  I  retain  their  influence,  as  the  air 
Retains  the  softness  of  departed  day." 

I  KNOW  a  lake,  a  quiet  lake, 

Shadowed  by  waving  trees; 
Calmly  it  lies  'neath  the  azure  skies, 

Scarce  rippled  by  the  breeze. 

I  know  a  path,  a  forest  path, 

Mid  tangled  bush  and  brake, 
And  he  who  doth  love  the  lonely  grove, 

No  other  path  would  take. 

I  know  a  stream,  a  still  clear  stream 

Winding  its  silent  way  ; 
In  whose  waters  the  silvery  troutlet  gleam, 

And  the  perch  and  pickerel  play. 

Beyond  the  dim  and  shadowy  wood, 

Doth  that  quiet  streamlet  flow; 
And  he  who  catcheth  never  a  fish, 

Yet  loves  on  its  banks  to  go. 

Green  was  our  way,  on  that  summer  day, 

And  pleasant  the  cooling  breeze; 
And  mildly  the  gleam  of  the  soft  sunbeam, 

Came  flickering  through  the  trees. 

O  'tis  sweet  to  rove  with  the  friends  we  love 

By  streamlet,  in  grove  or  glen; 
And  as  lonely  we  stray  tl/rongh  each  woodland  way, 

We  long  for  those  hours  again. 


EDITOR'S  TABLE.  91 


EDITOR'S   TABLE. 

BATHING — MEDICAL  SYSTEMS—  BEAUTY,  &c.  During  the  season  which 
is  just  closing,  we  know  nothing  more  refreshing  to  the  system  than  the 
frequent  use  of  the  bath.  To  our  own  sex,  especially,  whose  sedentary 
habits  make  it  seem  almost  miraculous  that  any  reach  maturity,  it  is  an  in- 
valuable practice.  For  our  own  part,  the  almost  invariable  luxury  of  a  cold 
bath  for  the  last  ten  or  twelve  years,  has  made  it  much  more  indispensable 
than  the  morning  meal.  We  wish  every  one  of  onr  readers  could  be  con- 
vinced of  its  beneficial  effects,  as  well  as  of  the  ease  and  rapidity  with 
which  it  may  be  performed.  A  good-sized  basin  of  water,  a  large  sponge, 
a  coarse  towel,  ten  minutes  time,  and  a  little  resolution,  are  all  the  requi- 
sites for  this  delightful  exercise,  which  when  it  is  properly  finished,  is  worth 
all  the  nostrums  ever  invented  for  dyspepsia,  low  spirits,  and  the  thousand 
irameless  Ci  ills  wjiich  flesh  is  heir  to." 

A  great  deal  is  written,  now  a-days,  about  "the  spirit  of  the  age."  It  la 
said  to  be  an  age  of  steam,  of  electricity,  &e.,  but  we  think  the  present  is 
eminently  a  medical  age.  If  there  is  a  disease  in  existence,  for  which  our 
newspapers  do  not  advertise  a  remedy,  we  are  certain  it  has  only  to  be 
hinted  at  and  some  infallible  cure  will  be  immediately  prepared  to  meet  the 
case.  All  that  amazes  us  is,  that  undertakers  and  hearses  are  still  patron- 
ized at  all,  and  that  tombs  and  grave-yards  are  not  rendered  entirely  un- 
necessary. 

Just  look  at  the  various  systems  which  are  contending  for  pre-eminence. 
We  beg  the  M.  D.'s  not  to  be  .disturbed,  we  are  not  about  to  open  an  attack 
upon  an}'  of  them.  If  we  possessed  the  ability,  we  could  not  make  such 
an  attempt  with  a  good  conscience,  for  we  are  firm  believers  in  the  more 
important  principles  of  each  of  these  opposing  systems.  As  for  the  "min- 
eral system,"  as  it  is  invidiously  termed  by  its  enemies,  we  certainly  have 
great  faith  in  the  mineral  waters  which  nature  herself  prepares,  and  we 
know  not  why  her  example  in  some  cases  may  not  be  beneficially  followed 
in  others.  It  is  true  that  one  Will  Shakspeare,  a  long  while  ago,  perempto- 
rily said,  "Throw  physic  to  the  dogs."  In  many  cases  we  think  physicians 
may  be  said  to  have  literally  obeyed  him.  We  suppose  this  trade,  like  most* 
others,  has  its  tricks;  we  hope  their  "colored  negatives,"  are  always  as  in- 
nocent and,  we  might  add,  as  efficacious  as  the  famous  brown-bread  pills 
of  so  much  notoriety.  We  do  think  the  system  would  have  much  less 
prejudice  to  encounter,  if  its  nomenclature  were  properly  reformed,  its 
Latin  terms  Anglicized,  and  its  mysterious  hieroglyphics  made  into  respec- 
table letters,  or  comprehensive  abbreviations. 

It  will  not  be  doubted  that  we  place  equal  confidence  in  the  botanical 
practice  when  we  assert  that  we  have  felt  the  beneficial  effects  of  lobelia; 
and  in  good  sooth  we  should  no  more  think  of  sneering  at  burdock  and 
camomile  and  pennyroyal  in  the  presence  of  sundry  highly  respected  fe- 


92  EDITOR'S  TABLE. 

male  relatives,  than  we  should   make  a  business  of  abusing  the  moon,  or 
scandalizing  murmuring  brooks  before  a  set  of  professed  poets. 

Jf  any  despisers  of  ThomsoTiianism  are  glancing  over  these  lines,  we  only 
wish  they  could  drink  composition,  as  we  have  done,  prepared  for  a  winter 
morning's  breakfast  on  Cape  Cod.  We  wish  we  had  "  Aunt  Cynthia's" 
exact  recipe,  but  in  lack  thereof  something  like  the  following  from  memory 
must  answer.  Say,  perhaps,  a  teaspoonful  of  "  No.  6,"  (we  confess  our- 
selves rather  dubious  about  this  technicality,)  to  three  pints  or  two  quarts 
of  boiling  water,  plenty  of  milk  and  sugar,  or  molasses  (we  forget  which  is 
the  essential,  but  we  insist  on  the  "sweetening").  We  pledge  ourselves 
that  Victoria  herself  would  do  justice  to  a  draught  of  this  mixture,  espe- 
cially if  properly  prepared  for  it  by  sleeplessness  from  cold,  or  a  night's  sea- 
sickness on  board  a  packet. 

We  must  acknowledge  ourselves  in  the  outset  almost  incompetent  to 
write  the  term  Homoeopathy,  from  our  nearly  utter  ignorance  upon  the  sub- 
ject. Our  only  experience  in  this  branch  of  medical  practice,  consists  in 
counting  out  at  different  times  some  dozens  of  the  Lilliputian  pills,  from 
bottles  to  match,  upon  the  tongue  of  an  aged  relative,  always  taking  the 
precaution  to  carefully  close  all  the  doors,  in  order  to  prevent  the  minute 
particles  from  being  blown  away  ;  this,  however,  was  not  always  successful, 
for  the  dear  old  lady's  breath,  which  we  had  no  machinery  to  restrain,  fre- 
quently sent  the  whole  dose  flying,  just  as  we  triumphantly  counted  out  the 
twelfth  or  twentieth  (we  forget  which).  We  must  not  take  our  leave  of 
this  case,  however,  without  stating  that  our  aged  friend  certainly  recovered 
from  the  attack  for  which  th«  pills  were  prescribed,  and,  what  is  yet  better, 
she  is  still  alive. 

After  our  introductory  remarks,  our  readers  will  be  prepared  to  hear  us 
assert  our  faith  in  Hydropathy.  Doubtless  there  is  a  great  deal  of  preten- 
sion and  extravagance  about  the  system  which  is  now  claiming  so  much 
public  attention ;  but  too  much  can  scarcely  be  said  of  the  virtues  of  cold- 
water  as  a  tonic.  We  have  never  tried  it,  personally,  for  any  acute  disease, 
for  we  thank  God  for  the  inestimable  blessing  of  habitually  good  health  ; 
but  we  believe  ourselves  indebted  to  its  constant  use  for  unfailing  good 
spirits,  and  a  resistance  to  the  effects  of  cold  and  fatigue  enjoyed  by  few  of 
our  sex.  W'e  frequently  astonish  some  of  our  friends  residing  at  a  distance 
of  ten  or  twelve  miles,  by  an  unexpected  visit,  performing  the  journey 
without  fatigue  by  means  of  our  own  private  conveyance.  We  know  of 
'  nothing  which  so  soon  and  so  effectually  dissipates  the  lassitude  and  ennui, 
which  almost  every  one  experiences  in  the  first  warm  mornings  of  spring, 
or  the  subsequent  depressed  heats  of  summer.  A  friend  of  ours,  who  has 
been  for  many  years  subject  to  troublesome  attacks  of  sore  throat,  now 
manages  to  effect  a  complete  cure  in  the  course  of  a  single  night,  by  the  ap- 
plication of  a  cloth  wrung  out  in  cold  water,  and  covered  with  a  piece  of  dry 
flannel.  It  is  well  known  that  headaches  may  be  frequently  cured  by  copi- 
ously bathing  or  showering  with  cold  water. 

A  few  months  since,  while  travelling  in  a  stage-coach,  we  met  with  an 
exceedingly  interesting  and  intelligent  old  lady,  nearly  eighty  years  of  age, 
with  whom  we  became  quite  acquainted.  In  the  course  of  conversation 


EDITOR'S  TABLE.  93 

she  introduced  the  subject  of  cold  bathing,  evidently  with  a  view  of  recom- 
mending it.  Delighted  to  find  one  so  ready  to  appreciate  and  bear  testi- 
mony to  its  virtues  from  experience,  she  stated  that  three  years  before  she 
had  been  in  a  perfectly  helpless  condition  from  spinal  complaint;  two  at- 
tendants were  constantly  necessary  to  change  her  position,  as  her  extreme 
suffering  made  her  restless,  and  she  was  utterly  incapable  of  moving  her- 
self in  any  manner  whatever.  After  some  two  or  three  years  passed  in 
this  situation  cold  bathing  was  recommended  by  a  judicious  physician.  It 
was  commenced  by  her  attendants,  and  followed  with  most  beneficial  re- 
sults. In  a  few  months,  the  aged  invalid  was  able  to  perform  her  ablutions 
herself,  and  gradually  gaining  strength  she  soon  left  her  bed  of  suffering 
and  resumed  her  former  duties.  She  said  that  for  the  last  three  years  she 
had  never  failed  of  her  cold  bath  a  single  morning; 'during  the  coldest 
weather  of  winter  it  was  performed  in  a  fireless  room,  without  the  slightest 
inconvenience  from  the  cold.  She  also  stated  that  a  sister  of  hers,  over 
eighty  years  of  age,  who  had  habituated  herself  to  this  practice  for  some 
fifteen  or  twenty  years,  was  more  active  and  vigorous  than  most  women  of 
forty  or  fifty. 

We  could  place  an  array  of  illustrious  names  before  our  readers  in  sup- 
port of  our  desultory  remarks  upon  this  subject;  but  we  content  ourselves 
with  the  following  extracts  from  the  sensible  and  useful  little  work  of  Dr. 
John  C.  Warren,  entitled  "Physical  Education  and  the  Preservation  of 
Health." 

"  The  application  of  cold  water  to  the  human  body  is  beneficial  princi- 
pally in  two  ways;  first,  as  a  purifier;  second,  as  a  tonic;  1st,  it  purifies 
the  body  by  removing  from  its  surface  those  excretions,  which  are  continu- 
ally poured  out.  The  skin  is  an  outlet,  by  which  are  discharged  matters 
necessary  to  be  thrown  out  of  the  system,  for  if  retained,  they  would  pro- 
duce disease.  These  matters  cause  an  incrustation  over  the  surface  of  the 
skin,  and  this  to  a  certain  extent  obstructs  the  little  orifices,  through  which 
these  exhalations  take  place.  Physicians  and  surgeons  are  in  the  habit  of 
observing  deplorable  instances  of  filthy  concretions  on  the  skin  of  poor  pa- 
tients, and  this  kind  of  neglect,  unfortunately,  is  not  wholly  confined  to 
the  lower  classes." 

"2d.  The  effect  of  cold  water  as  a  tonic  is  well  known.  The  refreshing 
influence  of  water  applied  to  the  face,  neck,  hands  and  arms,  is  a  matter  of 
general  experience.  The  operation  of  cold  water,  applied  to  the  whole 
surface  of  the  body,  is  to  produce  an  agreeable  and  refreshing  sensation. 
This  is  followed  by  a  glow  more  or  less  considerable,  depending  partly  upon 
the  difference  between  the  temperature  of  the  water  and  that  of  the  body, 
and  partly  on  the  state  of  the  body  itself,  to  which  the  application  is  made. 
Immersion  of  the  hand,  or  any  other  part  of  the  body,  in  cold  weather  in  te- 
pid water,  is  followed  by  a^ense  of  chilliness,  while  immersion  of  the  same 
part,  for  a  limited  time,  in  iced  water,  is  followed  by  a  sensation  of  positive 
heat.  Immersion  of  a  part,  or  the  whole  of  the  body  in  cold  water  causes 
an  increase  of  vigor.  This  is  particularly  obvious  in  hot  weather.  When 
one,  who  is  exhausted  with  heat  and  fatigue,  plunges  into  the  cold  water, 
or  receives  the  affusion  of  it  over  the  whole  surface  of  the  body,  the  Ian- 


94  EDITOR'S  TABLE. 

guid  frame  is  immediately  invigorated,  and  prepared  for  new  labors.  Tbi* 
change  is  probably  attributable  to  a  uniform  contraction  of  the  small  vessels, 
and  a  more  regular  flow  of  blood  through  the  relaxed  organs,  thus  reviving 
their  vigor." 

"  All  those  who  have  been  in  the  habit  of  using  cold  water  know,  that  an 
incipient  catarrhal  affection  often  disappears  on  its  judicious  application  to 
the  surface  of  the  body.  This  disease  is  a  congestion  of  the  blood  in  the 
vessels  of  the  membrane  lining  the  nostrils,  trachea  and  lungs,  arising  in 
this  instance,  from  the  application  of  cold  air  to  the  surface  of  the  body. 
When  cold  water  is  applied  to  the  skin  it.  produces  increased  circulation  in 
this  part,  and  the  blood  is  thus  diverted  from  the  internal  organs.  A  similar 
train  of  occurrences  takes  place  in  the  germination  of  many  diseases.  The 
effect  of  the  judicio*us  application  of  cold  water  to  the  surface  of  the  body 
is,  therefore,  to  relieve  temporary  languor,  remove  incipient  disease,  and 
give  permanent  tone  to  the  animal  system." 

We  close  our  suggestions  on  this  subject  by  an  appeal  to  our  own  sex, 
which  may  prove  even  more  powerful  than  the  hope  of  the  inestimable 
blessing  of  health.  Mrs.  Walker,  in  her  work  on  "  Female  Beauty,"  says  : 
"It  is  certain  that  of  all  admitted  practices,  none  has  a  more  decided  influ- 
ence both  upon  health  and  beauty,  than  frequent  use  of  the  bath.  Amongst 
modern  nations,  those  who  take  the  bath  frequently,  either  in  consequence 
of  its  connexion  with  religion  or  custom,  surpass  all  others  in  physical 
beauty  and  strength.  By  daily  bathing  the  Oriental  women  preserve  that 
suppleness  and  softness  of  skin  for  which  they  are  so  remarkable,  and  are 
free  from  the  numerous  diseases  to  which  a  sedentary  life  naturally  exposes 
them." 

Again  she  says:  "The  Greeks  represented  the  Goddess  of  Love  as  rising 
from  the  bosom  of  the  sea:  this  ingenious  fiction  may  surely  prove  to  us 
that  water  is  the  element  that  produces  beauty,  and  that  the  most  attractive 
charms  are  improved  arrtl  brought  to  perfection  in  its  refreshing  streams." 

Every  one  knows  that  the  ancient  sages  deemed  the  bath  of  so  much  im- 
portance that  its  use  was  enjoined  by  law.  The  Greeks  and  Romans  ex- 
pended immense  sums  upon  their  public  and  private  bathing  establishments. 
The  splendid  remains^f  the  baths  built  by  the  Moors  in  more  modern  times, 
under  Abderahman  the  Sectmd,  bear  witness  to  the  obedience  of  this  sin- 
gular people  to  the  wise  directions  of  their  prophet  in  this  respect. 

If  these  hastily  penned  remarks  shall  induce  only  one  of  our  readers  to 
commence  this  beneficial  practice  and  carry  it  through  life,  we  shall  esteem' 
ourselves  as  a  benefactor  of  mankind.  If  any  additional  inducement  is 
necessary,  we  would  advise  all  our  lady  friends  who  can  do  so,  to  take  a 
peep  into  Brarnan's  swimming  school,  some  sun-shiny  day.  It  is  certainly 
one  of  the  most  charming  sights  we  have  ever  witnessed.  The  fair  swim- 
mers in  their  becoming  bathing  dresses,  their  heightened  and  glowing  com- 
plexions, their  musical  laughter,  their  graceful  motions  in  the  sparkling 
water,  the  shouts  and  gladness  of  the  children,  altogether  making  it  so  fas- 
cinating a  scene  that  it  is  with  difficulty  we  tear  ourselves  from  it.  We 
would  undertake  the  conversion  of  any  number  of  unbelievers  in  the  sys- 
tem, with  this  illustration  of  its  beauties  arid  its  benefits  before  us. 


EDITOR'S  TABLE.  95 

A  WORTHY  TRIBUTE  TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  MRS.  FRY.  We  noticed,,!  short 
time  since,  a  proposal  to  establish  an  institution  for  the  temporary  reception 
of  females  discharged  from  the  metropolitan  prisons  and  police  offices,  who 
are  anxious  to  reform  their  lives,  to  be  called  "  Elizabeth  Fry's  Refuge." 

By  later  English  papers  we  see  that  the  proposition  is  meeting  with  even 
royal  favor.  At  a  recent  committee  meeting,  the  Hon.  W.  Cowper  signi- 
fied the  Queen's  pleasure  to  become  the  patroness,  and  to  subscribe  fifty 
guineas  in  aid  of  the  funds.  Prince  Albert  is  to  be  one  of  the  patrons,  and 
gives  a  subscription  of  twenty-five  pounds.  The  Chevalier  Bunsen  stated 
that  he  had  received  the  commands  of  the  King  of  Prussia  to  say,  that  in 
testimony  of  his  regard  for  the  memory  of  the  deceased,  and  his  approbation 
of  the  objects  of  the  institution,  his  Majesty  should  become  a  contributor. 


To  COKRESPONDF.NTS.  We  wonder  if  some  of  our  friends  have  not  fallen 
into  a  Rip  Van  Winkle  slumber? — from  which  we  sincerely  hope  they  will 
some  day  awake  to  the  remembrance  of  their  fair  promises  to  us.  "  Oht 
promises,  promises  !  Pie-crnst  is  adamant  to  you,  and  pufT-paste  is  not 
more  fragile,"  pathetically  remarks  Mr.  James.  We  hope  the  sentiment 
will  produce  some  twinges  of  conscience  in  the  right  quarters.  We  are 
thankful  that  a  few  valued  and  tried  spirits  stand  by  us  through  the  heat  of 
summer  as  well  as  in  the  cold  of  winter;  and  when  they  do  sleep,  their 
slumbers  must  be  sweet. 

Where  is  our  New  York  friend,  who  promised  us  "poetry  with  feet  and 
rhymes  in  it,  and  capitals  at  the  beginning  of  every  line"  ?  We  have  ful- 
filled the  conditions  demanded,  and  now  where  is  the  other  part  of  the 
bargain  ? 

We  regret  that  we  cannot  assist  the  young  person  who  writes  us  in  re- 
gard to  the  title  of  the  projected  periodical.  "  The  Dandelion,  or  Greens 
for  the  people,"  might  go  very  well  in  the  spring  of  the  year;  but  wa  fear 
"  The  Nettle"  would  n't  take  at  all. 

We  commiserate  the  case  of  the  young  lady,  who  writes  us  that  her  "fin- 
gers are  so  short  she  can  scarcely  hold  a  pen,  having  worked  them  nearly 
down  to  points  in  her  sewing  society  labors."  The  treasury  of  that  society 
must  be  in  a  flourishing  condition.  It  is  certainly  an  example  to  some  we 
wot  of. 


SLUMBER,    GENTLE   LADY. 

THE   MUSIC   COMPOSED  FOR    THE   LADIES*   PEARL,   BY  B.  F.  BAKER. 
ALTO. 

LLAmlaiite. 


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TREBLE. 


BASE. 


b-*~ 


0-~~-r& *0> 1— &-—  -• r-*-—  T* ft- rj F r-0 T 

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When  tlie      air      of      hea  -  ven        Lulls    it        to     re     - 


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Waft  thy      vis  -  ions     gen  -  -  tly  To   the    smil  -  ing  skies. 


THE  HEART  A  MUSIC-BOX. SKETCHES  OF  WESLEY.         97 


YOUR  HEART  IS  A  MUSIC-BOX,  DEAREST. 

YOUR  heart  is  a  music-box,  dearest ! 

With  exquisite  tunes  at  command, 
Of  melody  sweetest  and  clearest, 

If  tried  by  a  delicate  hand  ; 
But  its  workmanship,  love,  is  so  fine, 

At  a  single  rude  touch  it  would  break  : 
Then,  oh !  be  the  magic  key  mine, 

Its  fairy-like  whispers  to  wake  ! 
And  there's  one  little  tune  it  can  play 

That  I  fancy  all  others  above — 
You  learn'd  it  of  CCPID  one  day — 

It  begins  with  and  ends  with  "  I  love  !"  "  I  love  !" 

It  begins  with  and  ends  with  "  I  love  !" 

OSCOOD. 


For  the  Magnolia. 

SKETCHES  OF  WESLEY. -NO.  IV. 

BY  REV.  D.  WISE. 

Mr.  Wesley's  Baptism  of  the  Spirit— His  religious  character  prior  to  his 
conversion — The  Moravians  in  a  Storm — The  Moravian  Pastor's  ques- 
tion— Peter  Bolder — Mr.  Wesley  under  conviction — His  Conversion — 
The  wonderful  results. 

WE  have  now  followed  Mr.  Wesley  through  thirty-five 
years  of  his  life.  Thus  far,  he  had  not  developed  those  ex- 
traordinary powers,  the  exercise  of  which  has  made  his  name 
a  household  world  in  two  hemispheres,  and  caused,  in  the 
language  of  Dr.  Priestly,  "many  generations  to  call  him 
blessed."  His  hour  had  not  yet  come.  He  was  not  yet  fit- 
ted for  the  work  assigned^  him.  The  foundation  was  laid. 
The  elements  of  power  were  in  him.  He  only  needed  the 
VOL,  n.  7. 


98  SKETCHES  OF  WESLEY. 

impulses  and  the  circumstances  to  develop  those  elements  in 
all  their  moral  grandeur  and  beauty.  He  was  yet  like  Peter 
waiting  to  be  endowed  with  power  from  on  high.  Peter  had 
his  Pentecost  and  the  cries  of  three  thousand  human  hearts, 
first  convulsed  with  the  agonies  of  awakened  guilt,  and  then 
soothed  to  peace  and  lasting  joy  by  the  truth  he  uttered,  at^ 
tested  the  power  of  that  Pentecostal  baptism,  Mr.  Wesley 
had  his  Pentecost,  and  an  unwonted  influence,  such  as  had 
not  heretofore  attended  his  preaching,  fell  upon  the  people 
wherever  he  addressed  a  public  congregation. 

We  have  not  heretofore  said  much  of  his  exercises  as  a 
religious  man.  From  what  has  been  said,  however,  it  will 
be  inferred  that  he  was  far  from  being  indifferent  to  his  spir- 
itual interests.  From  a  child,  like  the  Bishop  of  Ephesus,  he 
had  been  taught  the  Scriptures  by  his  wise  and  judicious- 
mother.  She  had  effectually  taught  him,  to  look  upon  hu- 
man life,  as  affording  materials  and  opportunity  to  erect  a 
temple  for  the  honor  of  God.  This  principle  we  have  al- 
ready seen  operating,  first,  in  keeping  him  at  college,  and 
secondly,  in  sending  him  on  his  painful  mission  to  Georgia, 
It  had  led  him  to  the  sternest  possible  adhesion  to  morality, 
so  that  even  his  youth  is  not  stained  by  a  solitary  vice.  He 
had  also  aimed  at  leading  a  strictly  religious  life  :  especially 
from  the  period  of  his  ordination.  About  that  time  his  mind 
had  been  led  to  increased  religious  devotion  by  reading  Bishop 
Taylor's  Holy  Living  and  Dying,  Mr.  Law's  Serious  Call,  and 
Thomas  a  Kempis's  "Christian  Pattern."  Hence  at  college, 
we  find  him  aiming  at  the  strictest  conformity  to  God's  law — 
striving  to  reclaim  the  students  of  the  university  from  vice, 
and  holding  those  religious  meetings  among  the  more  serious, 
which  procured  him  and  his  kindred  spirits  the  opprobrious 
title  of  Methodists,  first  applied  to  them  by  a  student  of 
Christ  Church,  in  allusion  to  an  ancient  school  of  physicians, 
who  for  their  strictness  and  methodical  pursuit  of  medical 
knowledge  were  called  Methodists.  Tliey  were  also  called 
the  Holy  Club,  and  Mr.  Wesley  was  named  the  father  of  the 
Holy  Club. 


SKETCHES  OF  WESLEY.  99 

Besides  all  this  Mr.  W.  practiced  the  most  rigid  self-denial ; 
he  preached  and  labored  zealously  and  incessantly ;  visited 
prisons,  instructed  poor  children,  and  gave  the  greater  part 
of  his  income  for  charitable  purposes. 

But  with  all  this  religious  devotion  his  mind  was  not  at  rest. 
Fear  haunted  him  continually,  his  heart  seemed  panting  after 
something,  he  knew  not  what.  On  the  voyage  to,  and  during 
his  stay  in,  Georgia,  his  intercourse  with  a  number  of  pious 
Germans  belonging  to  the  Moravians  had  tended  still  more  to 
increase  his  dissatisfaction  with  himself.  They  were  evi- 
dently possessors  of  something  to  which  he  was  a  stranger. 
They  were  so  meek,  so  patient,  and  withal  so  bold  in  danger, 
so  exempt  from  the  fear  of  death,  that  Mr.  W.  was  aston- 
ished. During  the  voyage,  as  these  pious  men  were  engaged 
one  day  in  religious  services,  while  singing  the  opening  psalm, 
the  ship  was  struck  by  a  heavy  sea.  It  broke  over  her  decks, 
tore  the  mainsail  in  two,  and  poured  down  between  decks  in 
alarming  torrents.  The  English  and  others  screamed  aloud 
for  fear.  They  thought  the  ship  was  sinking ;  but  the  poor 
Germans  sung  on  without  a  sign  of  apprehension. 

"  Was  you  not  afraid  ?"  asked  Mr,  Wesley  of  one  of  them 
a  few  days  after. 

"  I  thank  God,  no,"  replied  the  honest  German. 

"  But  were  not  your  women  and  children  afraid  ?" 

"  No,"  answered  he  mildly ;  "  our  women  and  children  are 
not  afraid  to  die." 

On  his  landing  at  Georgia,  he  was  met  by  a  Mr.  Spangen- 
berg,  a  Moravian  pastor,  then  settled  at  Savannah.  Upon 
asking  some  advice  of  this  devoted  pastor,  Mr.  Wesley  was 
astonished  to  hear  him  reply : 

"  My  brother,  I  must  first  ask  you  one  or  two  questions. 
Have  you  the  witness  within  yourself?  Does  the  Spirit  of 
God  bear  witness  with  your  spirit  that  you  are  a  child  of 
God?" 

.  Mr.  Wesley  was  dumb.  This  was  new  language  to  the 
man  who  had  studied  Law's  Serious  Call  more  than  St 
Paul's  Epistles, 


100  .     SKETCHES   OF  WESLEY. 

The  good  Moravian  saw  his  embarrassment  and  went  on  : 

"  Do  you  know  Jesus  Christ  ?"  he  asked. 

"  I  know  he  is  the  Savior  of  the  world,"  replied  Mr.  W. 

"  True,"  returned  the  other ;  "  but  do  you  Icnow  he  has 
saved  you  ?" 

"  I  hope  he  has  died  to  save  me,"  was  the  trembling  reply. 

His  doubts  concerning  his  spiritual  safety  increased  during 
his  stay  in  Georgia,  and  were  still  more  strengthened  on  his 
return  by  the  conversations  he  had  with  Peter  Bohler,  another 
celebrated  Moravian  pastor. 

The  result  of  these  long-continued  anxieties  was,  to  use 
his  own  words ;  "  I  was  clearly  convinced  of  unbelief,  of  the 
want  of  that  faith  whereby  alone  we  are  saved  with  the  futt 
Christian  salvation." 

Still  he  was  cautious.  He  had  a  well-trained  and  philo" 
sophic  mind,  which  could  not  easily  be  brought  to  embrace 
a  novelty.  Accordingly  he  began  a  thorough  investigation 
of  this  great  subject.  He  opened  a  correspondence,  with  his 
strong-minded  mother  and  with  other  persons,  and  after  an 
interview  with  Bohler,  he  writes  in  his  journal ;  "  The  next 
morning  I  began  the  Greek  Testament  again,  resolved  to 
abide  by  the  law  and  testimony,  feeing  confident  that  God 
would  hereby  show  me  whether  this  doctrine  was  of  God.'r 

At  last  he  reached  the  ^conclusion,  "  that  faith  is  [to  use 
the  words  of  our  Church]  a  sure  trust  and  confidence  that  a 
man  has  in  God  that  through  the  merit  of  Christ  his  sins  are 
forgiven  ;"  but  was  still  unwilling  to  accede  to  Peter  Bohler's 
opinion,  that  instantaneous  conversion  is  the  doctrine  of  the 
Scriptures.  He  could  not  deny  that  it  was  thus  in  the  first 
ages  of  Christianity,  but  contended  that  times  were  changed. 
This  was  his  last  retreat,  and  he  writes  on  Sunday,  Feb.  28, 
1738,  "  I  was  beat  out  of  this  retreat  too,  by  the  concurring 
evidence  of  several  living  witnesses,  who  testified  God  had  sa 
wrought  in  themselves,  giving  them  in  a  moment,  such  faith 
in  the  blood  of  his  Son  as  translated  them  out  of  darkness 
into  light,  and  from  sin  and  fear  into  holiness  and  happiness. 
Here  ended  my  disputing.  I  could  now  cry  out,  Lord,  help 
my  unbelief!" 


SKETCHES  OF  WESLEY.  101 

He  further  describes  his  feelings  in  the  following  passages. 
"  It  is  now  more  than  two  years  since  I  left  my  native  coun- 
try in  order  to  teach  the  Georgian  Indians  the  nature  of 
Christianity :  but  what  have  I  learned  myself  in  the  mean 
time  ?  Why  (what  I  least  of  all  suspected)  that  I  who  went 
to  America  to  convert  others,  was  never  myself  converted  to 
God,  and  I  feel  that  I  am  sold  under  sin — I  know  too,  that  I 
deserve  nothing  but  wrath,  being  full  of  all  abominations  and 
having  no  good  thing  in  me  to  atone  for  them  or  to  remove 
the  wrath  of  God,  All  my  works,  my  righteousness,  my 
prayers  need  an  atonement  for  themselves,  so  that  my  mouth 
is  stopped.  God  is  holy.  I  arn  unholy  !  God  is  a  consum- 
ing fire :  I  am  altogether  a  sinner,  meet  to  be  consumed  !" 

In  such  powerful  struggles  of  mind  as  are  here  described, 
he  continued  until  the  24  of  May,  1738.  On  that  memora- 
ble day  he  attended  an  evening  meeting  of  a  religious  society 
in  Aldersgate  street,  London,  where,  he  says,  "  One  was 
reading  Luther's  preface  to  the  Epistle  to  the  Romans.  About 
a  quarter  before  nine,  while  he  was  describing  the  change 
which  God  works  in  the  heart  through  faith  in  Christ,  I  felt 
my  heart  strangely  warmed.  I  felt  I  did  trust  in  Christ,  Christ 
alone  for  salvation :  and  an  assurance  was  given  me,  that  he 
had  taken  away  my  sins,  even  mine,  and  saved  me  from  the 
law  of  sin  and  death. 

"I  began  to  pray  with  all  my  might,  for  those  who  in  a 
more  especial  manner,  despite  fully  used  me  and  persecuted 
me.  I  then  testified  openly  to  all  there,  what  and  how  I  first 
felt  in  my  heart." 

This  peace  was  more  or  less  disturbed  by  doubts  and  fears 
at  first,  but  he  was  soon  able  to  say ;  Now  I  am  always  con- 
queror: and  to  use  the  words  of  Mr.  .Watson,  one  of  his 
biographers,  "  His  experience,  nurtured  by  habitual  prayer 
and  deepened  by  unwearied  exertion  in  the  cause  of  his  Sa- 
vior, settled  into  that  steadfast  faith  and  solid  peace,  which 
the  grace  of  God  perfected  in  him  to  the  close  of  his  long 
and  active  life." 

I  have  been  Jhus  particular  in  narrating  this  part  of  Mr. 


102  SEPARATION. 

W.'s  experience,  because  it  affords  the  key  to  his  subsequent 
successes.  It  is  the  starting  point  of  the  extraordinary  por- 
tion of  his  life.  He  was  henceforth  a  changed  man,  as  much 
as  Saul  of  Tarsus  was  changed  after  his  meeting  with  Jesus 
Christ  on  the  route  to  Damascus.  Not  that  he  was  more 
moral,  more  sincere,  more  laborious,  more  self-denying.  This 
was  impossible.  These  virtues  he  was  possessed  of  before. 
But  he  was  changed  in  feeling,  changed  in  principle,  changed 
in  moral  power.  Before  this  experience,  his  feelings  were 
slavish  and  timid,  now  they  were  filial  and  confident — before 
he  felt  as  a  slave,  obeyed  as  a  slave,  now  he  both  felt  and 
obeyed  as  a  son.  He  was  obedient  from  affection,  he  trusted 
to  Christ  for  power  to  obey  and  to  do  good.  His  trust  was 
not  in  vain.  An  almost  unparalleled  excitement  henceforth 
attended  his  ministration  and  attested  that,  by  whatever  name 
you  call  the  work  which  passed  in  his  heart,  that  God  was 
with  him  afterwards  in  a  degree  and  manner  which  he  was 
not,  prior  to  this  experience. 


SEPARATION. 

FROM    GOETHE. 

I  THINK  of  thee  whene'er  the  sun  is  glowing 

Upon  the  lake ; 
Of  thee,  when,  in  the  crystal  fountain  flowing, 

The  moonbeams  slake. 

I  see  thee  when  the  wanton  wind  is  busy 

And  dust  clouds  rise  ; 
In  the  deep  night,  when  o'er  the  bridge  so  dizzy 

The  wanderer  hies. 

I  hear  thee  when  the  waves  with  hollow  roaring 

Gush  forth  their  fill ; 
Often  along  the  heath  I  go  exploring 

When  all  is  still. 

I  am  with  thee !     Tho'  far  thou  art  and  darkling, 

Yet  art  thou  near. 
The  sun  goes  down,  the  stars  will  soon  be  sparkling- 

Oh,  wert  thou  here  ! 


LETTERS  FROM  EUROPE.  103 


For  the  Magnolia. 

LETTERS  FROM  EUROPE-NO.  IV. 

•A  Good  Custom  of  European  Churches — St.  Paul's — Its  Interior — Inscrip- 
tion to  Sir  Christopher  Wren — Monuments  to  Howard,  Nelson,  f^c. — 
The  Clock— Exterior  of  the  Church — Westminster  Abbey— Its  Monu- 
ments. 

MY  DEAR  M., — We  assigned  to-day  for  visits  to  the  most 
noted  churches,  but  were  able  to  get  through  with  only  two, 
viz.  St.  Paul's  and  Westminster  Abbey.  We  attended  pray- 
ers in  the  former — devotional  services  are  held  there  every 
day,  both  morning  and  afternoon.  This  is  the  case  with  all 
the  great  churches  of  Europe,  so  far  as  my  observation  has 
extended.  They  are  also  kept  open  all  the  day,  that  the  de- 
vout or  the  weary  may  enter  at  their  discretion,  to  pray,  to 
meditate,  or  repose — a  delightful  custom  which  I  wish  could 
be  introduced  into  the  United  States.  After  the  services  at 
St.  Paul's,  we  commenced  our  examination  of  the  vast  struc- 
ture. I  had  not  appreciated  its  grandeur  before,  though  look- 
ing at  it  daily  from  my  chamber  window.  It  is  so  entrenched 
by  crowded  ranges  of  buildings,  that  its  proper  effect  is  lost, 
except  in  the  interior.  But  no  one  can  stand  at  the  junction 
of  the  nave  and  transept  and  look  to  the  vast  dome,  spread- 
ing put  like  a  firmament,  four  hundred  feet  above  him,  with- 
out paying  homage  to  the  sublime  genius  which  reared  it. 

The  church  is  built  in  the  form  of  a  Greek  cross.  It  cov- 
ers a  space  of  two  acres.  The  choir  which  is  the  part  of 
the  cross  above  the  transept,  is  inclosed  by  an  iron  railing, 
and  is  the  only  portion  of  the  vast  interior  occupied  for  wor- 
ship. It  is  divided  into  stalls  and  a  labyrinth  of  places  for 
the  numerous  officers  of  the  chapel  who  take  part  in  the  ser- 
vices. The  rest  of  the  interior  is  appropriated  to  monu- 
ments. Its  effect  is  increased  by  the  fact  that  the  multitude 
of  lateral  chapels,  altars,  &c.,  which  line  the  walls  of  conti- 
nental churches,  are  absent  here.  It  looks,  indeed,  vacant 


104  LETTERS  FROM  EUROPE. 

and  naked ;  but  its  grand  proportions  are  more  manifest, 
though  its  details  are  less  agreeable. 

Over  the  entrance  to  the  choir  is  an  inscription  to  Sir 
Christopher  Wren,  the  celebrated  architect  of  the  building. 
There  is  a  touch  of  real  sublimity  in  it.  It  may  be  translated 
thus :  "  Beneath  lies  Christopher  Wren,  the  architect  of  this 
church  and  city,  who  lived  more  than  ninety  years,  not  for 
himself,  but  for  the  public.  Reader,  do  you  ask  for  his  mon- 
ument ?  Look  around  you  !" 

The  interior  of  the  dome  is  painted  with  scenes  from  the 
history  of  St.  Paul — his  conversion,  preaching  before  Regius 
Raulus,  the  blindness  of  Elymas,  Paul  and  Barnabas  at  Lys- 
tra,  &c.  Most  of  the  monuments  occupy  positions  on  the 
floor  of  the  transept.  The  first  erected  was  that  of  Howard, 
the  distinguished  philanthropist.  He  stands  on  chains  and 
fetters,  holding  in  one  hand  the  key  of  a  prison,  and  in  the 
other  a  scroll  inscribed,  "  Plans  for  the  improvement  of  mis- 
sions." The  expression  of  the  countenance  is  full  of  benev- 
olence. 

Nelson's  memorable  words  on  going  into  battle,  were, 
"  Victory  or  Westminster  Abbey  !"  but  we  have  seen  only 
his  coat  perforated  by  bullets,  in  the  Abbey,  while  his  re- 
mains are  deposited  in  the  crypt  of  St.  Paul's,  in  a  sarcopha- 
gus, prepared  by  Cardinal  Woolsey  for  his  own  ashes.  Nel- 
son's monument,  by  Flaxman,is  one  of  the  finest  in  the  tran- 
sept of  St.  Paul's.  He  is  represented  as  leaning  against 
an  anchor,  while  a  female  figure,  representing  Britannia, 
stands  near,  pointing  two  youthful  seamen  to  the  great  hero. 
The  British  lion  reposes  at  his  feet.  There  are  also  monu- 
ments to  Bishop  Heber,  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  Dr.  Johnson, 
Sir  William  Jones,  Packenham  and  Gibbs,  who  fell  at  New 
Orleans,  and  Ross,  who  fell  at  Baltimore. 

The  ashes  of  Benjamin  West,  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  Sir 
Thomas  Lawrence,  Bishop  Newton,  &c.,  rest  in  the  crypt 
beneath  the  church. 

We  ascended  the  stairs  to  the  ball  on  the  dome — no  easy 
task,  you  may  imagine.  A  gallery  surrounds  the  top  of  the 


LETTERS  FROM  EUROPE.  105 

dome,  and  affords  a  commanding  view  of  the  city.  Its  din 
could  be  heard  like  the  distant  roar  of  the  sea,  and  its  pro- 
cessions of  inhabitants  looked  like  insects  dispersed  and  run- 
ning to  and  fro.  There  is  a  whispering  gallery  just  below 
the  dome,  affording  a  fine  view  of  the  interior  of  the  latter. 
A  whisper  uttered  on  one  side  of  this  gallery,  can  be  heard 
on  the  other,  at  least  one  hundred  and  fifty  feet  distant. 

The  clock  works  are  matters  of  curiosity.  The  diameter 
of  the  dial  is  eighteen  feet  and  ten  inches,  and  the  length  of 
the  hour  figures  two  feet  and  two  and  a  half  inches  ;  the 
hour  hands  are  five  and  a  half  feet  long,  and  their  weight 
forty-four  pounds  each  ;  the  minute  hands  are  eight  feet  long, 
and  their  weight  seventy-five  pounds  each.  The  pendulum 
is  fourteen  feet  long,  and  the  weight  at  the  end,  one  hundred 
weight. 

The  neighborhood  of  St.  Paul's  illustrates,  strikingly,  the 
characteristic  money-making  spirit,  of  which  I  fear  ours  is 
but  a  second  and  augmented  edition.  The  Italians  have 
given  St.  Peter's  a  wide  and  noble  range  of  view.  The 
cockneys  have  almost  literally  jammed  St.  Paul's  amidst  build- 
ings of  traffick,  symbolizing  quite  aptly  their  practical  treat- 
ment of  religion.  There  is  but  one  open  view  of  it — the 
one  from  Ludgate  Hill,  and  that  is  only  good  from  compari- 
son with  the  rest.  Still,  repeated  visits  enable  you  at  last  to 
appreciate  the  magnitude  and  dignity  of  the  noble  structure. 
St.  Paul's  is  a  study,  not  merely  a  sight.  Every  successive 
examination  increases  the  impression  of  its  grandeur,  and  the 
very  fact  that  it  is  inadequately  estimated  at  the  first  sight,  is 
a  proof  of  its  real  greatness,  for  things  of  small  magnitude 
and  simple  construction  can  alone  be  grasped  at  the  first  see- 
ing ;  those  which  are  vast  and  magnificent,  baffle  our  powers, 
and  give  us  a  painful  sense  of  imperfectness,  which  we  too 
often  ascribe  to  the  object,  and  not  to  ourselves. 

The  architecture  of  St.  Paul's  is  pure  Greek.  It  appears 
at  first,  complex,  in  so  large  an  edifice ;  but  the  fuller  appre- 
ciation obtained  by  frequent  examinations  gives  it  uniqueness 
and  symmetry.  Its  front  towards  the  west,  is  its  grandest 


106 


LETTERS  FROM  EUROPE. 


aspect.  Twenty-two  steps  of  black  marble,  lead  to  the  por- 
tico, which  is  adorned  by  .twelve  noble  Corinthian  pillars, 
with  a  still  higher  portico  of  eight  composite  columns,  which 
sustain  an  ample  pediment.  On  the  entablature  is  wrought 
in  basso  relievo,  the  scene  of  St.  Paul's  conversion.  On  the 
pediment  are  the  statues  of  the  four  evangelists,  St..  James, 
St.  Peter,  and  that  of  St.  Paul  in  the  midst.  Within  the 
iron  railing  before  this  front,  is  a  statue  of  Queen  Anne,  in 
marble.  The  dome  is  seen  from  all  the  neighboring  country, 
and  the  cross  planted  on  a  stupendous  globe,  and  towering 
above  the  whole  -mass,  presents  a  sublime  symbol  of  the  gran- 
deur of  that  religion  whose  empire  is  over  the  heaven  of 
heavens. 

We  passed  from  St.  Paul's  to  Westminster  Abbey ;  but 
you  must  not  expect  a  description  here.  I  neither  have  room 
nor  ability  for  it ;  a  volume  devoted  to  Westminster  Abbey 
could  scarcely  be  more  than  a  meagre  catalogue  of  its  objects 
of  interest.  It  is  a  most  imposing  gothic  structure,  situated 
not  far  from  the  Parliament  House  and  Westminster  Hall. 
The  traveller  just  from  the  magnificent  churches  of  the  con- 
tinent, may  refresh  his  taste  again,  by  the  fine  exterior  archi- 
tecture of  this  venerable  building.  But  the  splendor  of  its 
interior  workmanship  and  the  sculptured  monuments,  amassed 
in  its  numerous  chapels,  exceed  all  description.  It  is  a  vast 
museum  of  art — a  sculptured  history  of  England.  There 
are  several  entrances,  but  that  open  to  visitors,  is  at  the  Po- 
et's corner.  It  introduces  you  at  once  to  the  most  celebrated 
of  the  English  poets.  Prior's  bust  and  monument  stand 
before  you.  Chaucer's  tablet,  inserted  in  the  wall,  is  hardly 
legible ;  but  its  time-worn  appearance  comports  well  with  our 
remembrances  of  his  antiquated  verse.  Here  are  likewise 
monuments  to  Spencer,  Ben  Johnson,  Milton,  Butler,  Gray, 
Thompson,  Gay,  Mrs.  Rowe,  Goldsmith,  Dryden,  Cowley, 
Grarrick,  Giffbrd,  and  full  and  noble  statues  to  Acldison,  Hon- 
dell,  and  Shakespeare.  The  monument  to  Shakespeare  is 
much  admired.  He  leans  against  a  pedestal,  with  one  hand 
reclining  on  a  pile  of  books,  while  the  other  points  below,  to 


LETTERS  FROM  EUROPE.  107 

an  inscription  on  the  pedestal.  It  is  this  well-known  pas- 
'  sage  :  "The  cloud-capt  towers,  the  gorgeous  palaces,"  &c. 

The  monuments  in  other  parts  of  the  building  are  too  nu- 
merous for  enumeration.  There  is  a  fine  one  to  Major  An- 
dre, whose  remains  were  brought  from  America  and  interred 
here  in  1821.  Newton's  is  a  noble  one.  In  the  north  tran- 
sept are  buried  under  the  stone  floor,  and  near  to  each  other, 
Pitt,  Fox,  Grattan,  Canning,  and  Wilberforce.  What  mem- 
ories are  sown  in  these  few  square  feet  of  earth !  In  the 
eastern  part  of  the  building  are  the  royal  chapels  adorned  by 
the  monuments  of  English  sovereigns.  All  its  aspects  teem 
with  historical  reminiscences,  and  the  monuments  are  regally 
magnificent.  But  to  the  intelligent  visitor  all  this  splendor  is 
nothing  compared  to  the  moral  interest  attached  to  such 
names  as  Alfred,  Edward  the  Confessor,  Henry  the  Seventh, 
Elizabeth  and  Mary  of  Scotland.  The  chapel  of  Henry  VII. 
is  a  most  interesting  part  of  the  edifice ;  its  workmanship  ex- 
ceeds all  description,  especially  its  fretted  and  celebrated  ceil- 
ing, wrought  in  stone.  In  its  centre  is  the  tomb  of  Henry 
VII.  and  his  Queen  Elizabeth.  Its  aisles  are  crowded  with 
gorgeous  tombs  of  royal  and  noble  personages. 

Nothing  can  be  more  impressive  than  to  stand  in  the  nave 
of  the  abbey  and  survey  the  lengthened  aisles,  the  lofty  pil- 
lars, the  innumerable  and  varied  monuments,  remembering 
meanwhile  that  its  foundations  are  laid,  as  it  were,  in  the  dust 
of  kings,  heroes,  statesmen,  sages  and  poets.  I  shall  never 
forget  my  visit  to  Westminster  Abbey.  But  I  forbear :  it 
cannot  be  described.  J. 


108  THE  MEMORY  OF  THE  DEPARTED. 


For  the  Magnolia. 

THE  MEMORY  OF  THE  DEPARTED 

CAN  I  forget  thee,  loved  and  lost? 

Can  memory  lose  thy  image  dear? 
Far  o'er  life's  sea  I  have  been  tossed, 

Yet  still  I  feel  thy  presence  near. 

Thy  image  on  my  heart  is  set 

As  on  the  seal  is  cut  the  token 
So  deeply  it  remaineth  yet — 

In  fragments  though  the  gem  is  broken. 

How  mingled  our  young  hearts  when  first 
We  in  love's  early  spring-time  met, 

When  from  each  gushing  heart,  our  thirst 
Drank  such  full  draughts :  can  I  forget ! 

Blest,  blissful  hours,  when  first  we  strayed 
In  day's  mild  twilight  by  the  stream, 

Whose  music,  with  love's  whisperings,  made 
Those  flying  hours  a  heavenly  dream. 

The  wild  flower  bathed  in  evening  dew 

Blushed  as  we  passed,  in  virgin  bloom ; 
The  scented  hawthorn  freely  threw 
Upon  the  air  its  rich  perfume. 

The  twittering  sparrow  hopped  among 
The  waving  boughs  in  leafy  shade ; 

The  redbreast  trilled  his  evening  song; 
The  swallow  swiftly  skimmed  the  glade. 

Soft  breathed  the  zephyr's  dying  sigh, 
Laden  with  spring's  delicious  balm  ; 

Mild  beamed  day's  slowly  closing  eye, 
On  Nature's  quiet  soothing  calm. 

Nor  summer's  beauty,  nor  its  bloom, 
Were  fair  but  in  love's  light  from  thee  ; 

Nor  soothing  sounds,  nor  sweet  perfume, 
Without  thy  tones,  were  aught  to  me. 

Thou  wert  my  hope's  bright  guiding  star; 

Thy  smile  was  all  life's  light  to  me, 
Gilding  all  coming  years  afar 

Like  moonbeams  on  a  summer's  sea. 


THE    INDIAN    CAPTIVE.  109 

Still  are  thy  accents  in  mine  ear ; 

Thy  smile  before  my  vision  plays; 
As  to  the  soul,  so  oft.  appear 

The  cherished  thoughts  of  other  days.  T. . . . 


* 
For  the  Magnolia. 

THE  INDIAN  CAPTIVE. 

BY    THE    TRANSLATOR    OF    MADAM    GPlZOT's    TALES, 

[Conclusion.] 

SUCH  was  the  state  of  affairs  at  the  moment  in  which  I 
have  shown  you  Garakontie  and  Kerry-Moyamee  conversing 
at  the  door  of  the  young  girl's  wigwam ;  they  were  about  to 
separate,  when  they  saw  the  venerable  Custaloga,  their  fa- 
ther, approach  them  with  gravity  and  pray  them  to  listen  at- 
tentively. 

"  Son  and  daughter  of  the  Delawares,"  said  he  to  them, 
"  open  your  ears,  for  my  words,  like  the  drops  from  a  water- 
fall have  each  their  Weight,  and  black  falsehood  never  comes 
out  from  my  lips.  Thou,  Moyamee,  art  about  to  quit  thy 
wigwam  and  the  village,  to  return  to  the  country  of  Onas, 
where  the'  white  men  have  banished  shade  and  coolness. 
When  far  from  thy  adopted  father,  from  thy  brothers  and  thy 
Delaware  friends,  thou  shall  dwell  among  the  whites,  remem- 
ber the  counsels  which  the  wisdom  of  years  makes  to  flow 
from  my  lips.  Suspect  their  long  and  courteous  speeches ! 
whoever  confides  to  theni  is  lost.  They  never  say  what  they 
think,  or  think  what  they  say.  Soon  the  cinders  of  thy 
hearth  will  be  dispersed,  and  thy  fire  extinct,  poor  child  !  but 
the  Great  Spirit,  will  not  allow  our  memories  to  depart  from 
thy  heart,  and  this  thought  shall  be  our  consolation." 

Then  he  interrupted  himself  while  Moyamee  wiped  away 
a  tear  which  fell  from  the  eye  of  the  old  man.  After  a  short 
pause  he  resumed : 


110  THE    INDIAN    CAPTIVE. 

"  As  for  thee,  Garakontie,  listen :  them  art  brave,  thou  art 
strong  as  the  rocks  of  the  Alleghanies,  thy  sight  is  piercing 
as  that  of  the  eagle ;  thy  hearing,  acute  as  that  of  the  elk 
who  hears  the  steps  of  the  weasel  on  the  snow  and  the  breath 
of  the  muskrat  in  his  hole  ;  while  thy  carbine  never  misses  its 
aim.  One  thing  more  is  wanting ;  let  thy  love  and  its  mem- 
ories be  fastened  by  strong  bonds  in  the  depths  of  thy  heart 
that  they  may  not  appear  outwardly ;  be  wise  and  wary  as 
the  beaver  of  the  marshes,  cunning  as  the  fox,  bold  as  the 
hungry  panther,  light  at  the  race  as  the  hunted  stag,  terrible 
against  thy  enemies,  but  faithful  to  thy  allies,  white  or  red, 
and  the  leaves  of  the  tree  of  thy  life  shall  long  overshadow 
the  wigwams  of  our  village  and  our  tribe.  The  great  council- 
fire  is  lighted  in  the  camp  of  the  sons  of  Onas,  at  the  forks 
of  the  Muskingum  ;  take  thy  war-dress,  and  come  to  smoke 
the  pipe  of  peace  with  the  bearded  men." 

The  young  man  cast  down  his  head,  and  without  replying 
to  his  father,  turned  towards  his  wigwam  to  prepare  for  his 
departure  with  twenty  warriors  who  were  to  accompany  the 
sagamore  and  Moyamee.  The  young  girl  was  sad,  because 
two  distinct  affections  were  conflicting  in  her  heart :  the  one 
for  her  real  parents  whom  she  was  about  to  rejoin  after  many 
years  of  absence ;  the  other  for  her  adopted  family  which  she 
was  about  to  quit. 

An  hour  after,  a  canoe  of  birch-bark,  paddled  by  a  dozen 
Indians,  descended  the  rapids  of  the  Tuskaraway,  while  ten 
other  warriors  followed  the  same  route  walking  on  the  shore. 
A  European  would  have  been  astonished  at  the  boldness  of 
those  who  had  embarked  in  a  boat  so  fragile,  and  especially 
at  the  address  with  which  they  followed  the  rapids  or  currents 
almost  always  forming  falls,  or  avoided  the  numerous  rocks 
against  which  the  foaming  waves  dashed  and  roared.  Soon 
the  canoe  entered  the  more  tranquil  waters  of  the  Muskingum, 
and  ascended  the  river  towards  the  Forks,  thirty-five  miles 
from  its  mouth.  What  was  not  less  remarkable,  surrounded 
by  these  ferocious  savages,  who  thought  only  of  murdering 
and  massacring  the  whites,  a  young  white  girl  travelled  with 


THE    INDIAN    CAPTIVE.  Ill 

more  security  than  if  she  had  been  in  a  coach  setting  out 
from  London  or  Paris.  In  the  evening  she  encamped  with 
them  on  the  moss  of  the  forests  ;  in  the  day-time  her  delicate 
hands  roasted  on  the  shore  the  flesh  of  animals  killed  in  the 
chase,  or  trouts  caught  by  snares  in  the  stream. 

Let  us  now  look  at  what  was  passing  during  this  time  in 
the  camp  at  the  Forks.  General  Bouquet  had  caused  four 
large  redoubts  to  be  built,  the  intermediate  space  of  which 
offered  a  large  public  square  perfectly  shaded  by  trees  and 
vines.  They  had  constructed  also  a  magazine  for  provisions, 
and  several  houses  and  barracks  to  lodge  the  officers  and  the 
prisoners  whom  the  savages  were  about  to  bring.  Very  soon 
the  camp  became  like  a  little  city,  in  which  the  most  exact 
order  reigned.  During  more  than  twelve  days  which  this  sin- 
gular congress  lasted,  the  general  often  saw  the  Indian  chiefs, 
heard  their  discourse,  received  and  sent  messengers  to  and 
from  the  neighboring  tribes,  relative  to  the  conditions  of  the 
treaty,  and  particularly  to  the  punctual  delivery  of  the  pris- 
oners of  war,  the  principal  object  of  his  solicitude.  Ninety- 
four  of  these  prisoners  arrived  from  among  the  Mingoes ;  two 
hundred  and  six  from  the  Cognawagas ;  a  hundred  and  four 
from  the  Shawanese,  and  eighty-seven  from  the  different  vil- 
lages of  the  Delawares.  Among  them  were  many  women 
and  children. 

In  the  midst  of  the  camp,  the  general  had  caused  to  be 
constructed  an  immense  cabin  of  large  timbers,  where  the 
council-fire  was  to  be  lighted.  A  crowd  of  chiefs  and  war- 
riors assembled  there  from  the  different  tribes.  We  are  now 
about  to  introduce  the  reader  to  one  of  the  last  assemblies 
of  this  extraordinary  congress.  A  fire  had  been  lighted  in 
the  midst  of  the  council-hall.  General  Bouquet,  seated  in 
an  arm-chair  hastily  made  from  the  trunk  of  a  sycamore,  was 
attended  by  all  his  suite,  in  a  costume  as  brilliant  as  circum- 
stances would  permit.  Around  the  fire  were  seated  the  chiefs 
and  the  Indian  warriors.  All,  with  heads  inclining  forward, 
and  eyes  fixed  upon  the  ground,  were  inhaling  the  smoke  of 
their  calumets,  and  after  a  long  interval  slowly  exhaling  it 


THE    INDIAN    CAPTIVE. 

through  their  nostrils,  in  two  uninterrupted  columns,  indi- 
cating, according  to  their  ideas,  profound  meditation  on  im- 
portant subjects.  No  one  was  painted,  nor  were  their  heads 
or  ears  ornamented  with  feathers ;  their  mantles  of  beaver 
fell  behind  them,  leaving  exposed  on  their  breasts  and  their 
robust  arms,  divers  figures  of  animals,  insects  or  fish,  which 
had  been  tattooed  there  in  youth.  This  collection  of  half- 
naked  men,  so  ferocious  in  war,  so  implacable  in  the  pursuit 
of  vengeance,  so  mild  and  tranquil  in  their  villages,  offered 
to  the  eye  a  singular,  but  imposing  spectacle. 

I  will  not  here  transcribe  all,the  speeches  which  were  pro- 
nounced, and  which  prolonged  the  congress  so  many  days. 
All  the  prisoners  having  been  delivered,  and  the  conditions 
of  the  treaty  accepted,  the  general  resolved  to  extinguish  the 
council-fire.  Consequently,  accompanied  by  all  his  officers 
and  his  military  band,  he  entered  the  hall  of  conference ;  for 
the.  last  time,  he  took  the  chiefs  by  the  hand  and  smoked  with 
them  the  grand  calumet  of  peace ;  then  each  prepared  to  re- 
turn to  his  own  country. 

When  Moyamee  was  presented  by  Custaloga  to  General 
Bouquet,  she  vainly  cast  her  glance  around  upon  the  Dela- 
ware warriors  who  were  bidding  her  farewell :  she  perceived 
not  Garakontie,  and  believed  that  her  brother  had  been  the 
first  to  forsake  her.  Her  heart  swelled,  and  tears,  till  then 
restrained  with  much  effort,  gushed  from  her  eyes.  The 
general  took  her  by  the  hand  and  attempted  to  console  her. 

"  Sir,"  said  Marie,  "  conduct  me  to  Sir  William,  my  father.'' 

"  Miss  Marie,  your  father  has  requested  me  to  conduct  you 
to  Carlisle,  for  affairs  of  business  have  detained  him  in  that 
city." 

"And  my  mother ?" 

"  Your  mother  awaits  you  there  with  the  most  lively  im- 
patience." 

fl  It  is  well,  sir,"  replied  Marie ;  and  her  tears  ceased  to  flow. 

On  the  next  day  the  camp  was  removed  and  the  army 
marched  back  over  the  same  route  which  it  had  come.  The 
general,  who  was  united  to  the  family  of  Marie  by  the  ties 


THE    INDIAN    CAPTIVE.  113 

of  friendship,  bestowed  upon  her  the  greatest  attention ;  but 
the  young  girl  coldly  repulsed  his  cares,  and  appeared  plunged 
in  profound  melancholy.  As  she  had  manifested  no  desire  to 
remain  among  the  savages,  they  left  her  perfectly  free,  and 
were  not  surprised  to  see  her  sometimes,  on  their  evening 
halts,  wander  from  the  encampment  to  indulge  her  sad  rev- 
eries on  the  banks  of  the  Muskingum.  Only  on  one  day  she 
did  not  leave  the  camp ;  it  was  that  in  which  the  army  halted 
at  the  mouth  of  the  Tuskaraway.  They  noticed  also  that 
she  quitted  this  day  for  the  first  time  her  Delaware  costume 
to  clothe  herself  after,  the  European  fashion,  although  the 
general  had  placed  at  her  disposal  from  the  very  first  a  trunk 
which  her  parents  had  sent  her,  and  which  contained  several 
suits  of  clothing. 

One  evening,  seated  on  the  bank  of  the  Ohio,  which  the 
army  had  just  reached,  Marie  was  striving  to  recall  to  her 
mind  the  memories  of  her  early  infancy,  and  to  forget  those 
of  the  forests.  Night  was  beginning  to  draw  its  thick  shad- 
ows over  the  stream,  when  a  strange  cry  startled  the  poor  girl. 
This  cry  was  not  the  growling  of  the  black  bear,  or  the  howl 
of  the  wolf,  or  even  the  dismal  hoot  of  the  owl,  but  simply 
that  of  the  duck.  Moyamee  hastily  turned  her  head  towards 
a  grove  whose  flowers  and  fruits  perfumed  the  evening  breeze  ; 
but  she  perceived  nothing.  She  was  rising  sadly  to  return  to 
the  camp,  when  a  well-known  voice  reached  her  ear,  and  she 
listened  with  all  the  attention  of  which  she  found  herself  ca- 
pable ;  for  the  voice  sometimes  became  mingled  with  the 
sound  of  the  reeds  agitated  by  the  wind,  and  reached  her  but 
indistinctly.  Some  one  chanted  to  a  sad  and  monotonous  air 
the  following  words : 

"  Moyamee !  where  art  thou  ?  Canst  thou  not  hear  the 
voice  of  Garakontie,  thy  brother  and  friend  ? 

"  The  threshold  of  thy  door  is  removed,  and  thy  fire  ex- 
tinguished !  But  to  whom  speak  I,  since  thou  art  no  longer 
near  to  listen  to  my  words  ?  Can  my  voice  reach  thee,  and 
thine,  like  that  of  echo,  reach  me  ?  I  listen.  I  hear  but  the 
sound  of  the  passing  wind  or  the  distant  waterfall  in  the 

VOL.  II.  8 


114  THE    INDIAN    CAPTIVE. 

neighboring  forests.  It  says  nothing  to  the  ear  of  my  atten- 
tive spirit.  I  listen  again.  I  hear  only  the  woodpecker  tap- 
ping the  old  trunk  of  a  tree,  or  the  pheasant  summoning  his 
companion.  I  would  yet  converse  with  the  friend  who  lives 
in  my  thoughts,  and  whose  image  the  eyes  of  my  spirit  be- 
hold. Let  me  then  speak  of  thee  to  myself,  since  the  white 
man's  camp,  like  a  mountain,  conceals  thee  from  my  eyes, 
and  like  the  frosts  of  winter,  thy  absence  has  shut  my  mouth. 
Moyamee !  where  art  thou  ?  Canst  thou  not  hear  the  voice 
of  Garakontie,  thy  brother  and  friend  ? 

"  Since  thy  departure,  my  countenance  is  sad  as  the  waters 
which  flow  beneath  the  dark  pines ;  my  spirit  loses  itself  in 
darkness,  as  the  hunter  in  the  depths  of  the  forests.  Dost 
thou  remember  our  lost  happiness  ?  when  wilt  thou  return 
and  restore  the  gaiety  which  departed  with  thee  ?  To  follow 
thee,  I  have  left  my  wigwam ;  the  reptiles  of  the  earth  and 
\the  birds  of  the  night  have  taken  possession  of  it.  If  1  can- 
not find  thee,  oh,  Moyamee,  my  life  will  cease  and  my  spirit 
depart,  leaving  my  bones  to  whiten  in  the  wind  and  the  rain. 

"  Oh,  Moyamee !  from  the  country  of  Onas  thou  hearest 
«o  more  the  voice  of  Garakontie,  thy  brother  and  friend !" 

The  voice  ceased,  and  the  young  girl  remained  an  instant 
in  thought.  Then  suddenly  passing  her  hand  over  her  fair 
foreliead,  and  flinging  to  the  breeze  her  golden  hair,  she  be- 
.gan  to  sing  in  a  soft  voice : 

"IMoyamee  is  here,  seated  under  the  weeping  willow ;  she 
;has  heard  the  voice  of  Garakontie,  her  brother  and  friend.' 

Immediately  the  young  warrior  stood  before  her,  and  seized 
her  hand  which  he  bathed  with  his  tears ;  then  stepped  back, 
ashamed  of  the  familiarity  which  a  savage  never  allows  him- 
self towards  any  but  his  wife.  I  am  ignorant  of  what  was 
said  by  these  young  people ;  I  only  know  that  after  this  con- 
versation, Marie  re-entered  the  camp  with  a  countenance  less 
sad  than  usual,  and  that  an  observant  eye  might  have  read  in 
her -look  and  on  her  forehead  the  tokens  of  firm  resolution. 

The  next  day  the  army  crossed  the  Ohio,  and  a  crowd  of 
savages,  who  had  until  then  followed  their  adopted  children 


THE    INDIAN    CAPTIVE.  115 

during  their  march,  and  fed  them  from  the  spoils  of  the  chase, 
bid  them  their  last  and  most  touching  adieus,  recommending 
them  tearfully  to  the  kindness  of  the  officers  and  soldiers. 
Here  the  possessions  of  Pennsylvania  commenced,  and  it  is 
very  certain  that  had  the  Indians  attempted  to  set  foot  there- 
on, the  colonists  to  revenge  themselves,  would  have  massacred 
all  whom  they  found  there.  Nevertheless,  one  young  Dela- 
ware refused  to  depart  when  General  Bouquet  ordered  him 
to  do  so,  and  all  which  could  be  said  of  his  danger  had  no 
effect  on  his  resolution.  In  fact,  he  followed  the  army  as  far 
as  Fort  Pitt,  but  they  saw  him  very  rarely,  because  he  lin- 
gered in  the  rear  and  frequented  the  woods  and  the  most 
lonely  places.  When,  on  his  occasional  appearance,  he  was 
asked  why  he  persisted,  in  exposing  himself  to  danger,  he 
replied : 

"  I  run  no  risk,  for  a  white  spirit,  whom  I  saw  on  the  banks 
of  the.Muskingum,  has  taught  me  to  adore  the  Ockimaw  of 
the  Christians,  and  I  believe  that  the  white  woman  is  the  equal 
of  the  red  man." 

No  one  understood  this  singular  reply,  and  he  was  regarded 
as  deranged. 

After  a  fatiguing  march  of  a  fortnight,  they  arrived  at  Pitts- 
burg,  where  the  army  were  to  remain  sometime.  A  great 
number  of  the  wealthiest  and  most  influential  of  the  colonists 
had  assembled  at  this  growing  city  to  congratulate  the  con- 
queror of  Bushy  Run,  and  the  general,  by  way  of  acknowl- 
edgment, resolved  to  give  them  a  grand  dinner,  of  which  the 
charming  Marie  should  do  the  honors.  The  guests  had  al- 
ready assembled  in  the  dining-hall,  and  were  awaiting  only 
the  young  and  beautiful  girl,  when  one  of  the  most  extraor- 
dinary scenes  occurred  to  absorb  their  attention.  The  door 
of  the  hall  opened,  and  three  singular- looking  persons  en- 
tered, dressed  in  complete  Indian  costume.  One  was  an  old 
man  with  stately  step  and  a  forehead  marked  with  the  furrows 
of  long  experience ;  the  other  ,was  a  young  warrior.  Each 
wore  a  long  eagle  feather,  passed  through  their  ears,  which 
announced  them  to  be  chiefs ;  their  faces  were  grotesquely 


116  THE    INDIAN    CAPTIVE. 

painted  with  vermillion  and  white ;  rich  collars  of  wampum 
adorned  their  necks,  and  from  their  girdles  hung,  on  one  side 
a  scalping-knife,  on  the  other  a  glistening  tomahawk.  The 
youngest  held  in  his  hand  a  dry  stick  of  the  resinous  larch- 
tree,  of  which,  one  end  was  burning. 

The  old  man  was  holding  by  the  hand  a  young  girl,  whose 
costume,  entirely  Indian,  was  not  wanting  in  grace  or  rich- 
ness ;  on  her  head  floated  a  magnificent  aigrette  of  red  plumes, 
and  her  face  was  covered  with  large  red,  yellow  and  blue  rays, 
forming  figures  of  birds  and  flowers. 

At  first,  no  one  recognized  the  unexpected  guests ;  but  the 
general  having  approached  them,  suddenly  recoiled  with  sur- 
prise, crying  out : 

"  How  !  Miss  Marie !  what  does  this  signify  ?" 

Then  the  young  girl,  advancing  with  a  firm  and  majestic 
step,  extended  her  arm  towards  the  general,  and  said : 

"  General  Bouquet,  I  am  no  longer  called  Marie,  but  Kerry- 
Moyamee.  Here,  on  the  territory  of  Pennsylvania,  I  am  no 
longer  subject  to  your  orders ;  I  am  as  free  as  yourself,  since 
yesterday  I  attained  the  age  fixed  by  your  laws  for  my  major- 
ity. Open  your  ears  to  the  truth :  for  renouncing  forever  my 
native  country,  I  am  about  to  speak  to  you  as  a  true  daughter 
of  the  Delaware.  I  had  a  white  father,  I  sought  him  among 
you ;  where  is  he  ?  He  knows  that  his  child  is  here,  at  a  few 
leagues  only  from  his  dwelling ;  I  see  him  not.  Where  is  my 
white  brother  ?  he  is  not  here  ;  he  fears  to  wound  his  feet 
among  the  thorns  of  the  Alleghanies.  Where  is  my  mother  ? 
I  know  not.  I  see  not  before  me,  in  Pennsylvania,  any  who 
have  a  heart  of  love  for  Marie.  I  turn  and  look  behind  me, 
toward  the  Muskingum  ;  I  see  the  wise  Custaloga,  my  adopted 
father ;  the  valiant  Garakontie,  my  brother  and  friend,  who 
have  both  followed  the  child  and  sister  of  their  affections,  at 
night  through  marshes,  in  the  morning  amidst  the  thorny  and 
dense  forests,  by  day  in  the  heat  of  the  sun,  walking  barefoot, 
sleeping  on  the  damp  earth,  swimming  across  lakes  and  rivers, 
defending  themselves  from  the  ferocious  beasts  of  the  woods, 
and  fearing  at  every  moment  the  long  knife  of  the  soldier  or 


THE    INDIAN    CAPTIVE.  117 

the  carbine  of  the  colonist.  What  think  you  of  this,  gen- 
eral ?  Speak  i  I  will  listen.  You  say  nothing,  I  continue  ; 
but  first  look." 

She  beckoned  to  Garakontie,  who  presented  to  her  the 
flaming  brand,  on  which  she  breathed  three  limes ;  after  which 
Custaloga  took  the  hand  of  the  young  girl,  and  placed  it  in 
that  of  the  young  man  ;  then  Moyamee  continued  : 

"  I  am  now  about  to  speak  to  you  as  a  Delaware  wife,  for 
I  have  breathed  on  the  brand.  You  have  conquered,  not  be- 
cause you  are  braver  than  our  warriors,  but  because  your  arms 
were  better  than  theirs,  and  because  ytm  commanded  the  men 
with  the  long  knife.  Our  people  have  devastated  your  fron- 
tiers, because  these  lands  belonged  to  them ;  they  have  taken 
some  of  your  forts,  because  you  wished  to  hinder  them  from 
trading.  If  you  say  that  they  are  in  the  wrong,  I  reply  that 
their  ancestry  possessed  this  soil,  hunted  here,  occupied  it 
long  before  the  arrival  of  yours.  Your  farmers  need  peace 
and  rest  to  repair  their  losses ;  well !  you  will  have  both  if  you 
exact  nothing  humiliating  of  our  people.  You  know  them 
doubtless  ;  one  of  the  conditions  of  the  Tuskaraway  treaty  is, 
that  they  restore  their  prisoners  ;  know  you  not  that  there  are 
none,  and  that  the  whites  who  live  among  them  are  their 
adopted  relatives  and  friends.  I  was  taken  at  the  age  of 
eight:  I  have  since  been  happy.  If,  in  spite  of  your  laws, 
you  compel  me  to  follow  you,  I  shall  return  among  my  breth- 
ren as  soon  as  I  can  escape.  Such  are  my  intentions :  they 
are  those  of  a  great  number  of  the  prisoners  whom  you  have 
compelled  the  chiefs  to  deliver  up.  To  the  glory  which  you 
have  just  acquired  by  your  arms,  it  is  noble  to  add  that  of 
humanity ;  but  since  it  destroys  our  happiness,  be  generous 
enough  to  allow  us  to  return  to  the  villages  of  our  friends." 

Astonished,  struck  with  the  wild  boldness  of  Marie,  as  well 
as  with  what  she  had  just  communicated,  the  general  thought 
best  to  consult,  not  only  his  officers,  but  also  some  magistrates 
who  were  then  at  Pittsburg.  All  the  officers  thought  that 
each  individual  had  a  right  tcx,  dispose  of  himself  and  to  seek 
happiness  where  he  could  best  secure  it.  The  magistrates 


118  SONNET. 

affirmed,  that  according  to  the  laws,  no  one  had  a  right  to 
detain  Marie  against  her  will.  Consequently,  the  general 
performed  his  part  gallantly ;  and,  the  next  day,  Custaloga, 
Garakontie  and  Moyamee  departed  for  their  Tuskaraway 
home,  and  an  escort  of  soldiers  accompanied  them  to  the 
mouth  of  the  Muskingum,  to  shield  the  two  Indian  chiefs 
from  the  vengeance  of  the  colonists. 

The  young  girl  was  never  afterwards  heard  of  in  Philadel- 
phia. When  her  father,  Sir  William,  learned  the  intelli- 
gence, he  said : 

"  Indeed,  I  had  no  idea  that  Marie  had  become  attached 
there,  and  I  am  sorry,  because  it  was  my  intention  to  marry 
her  to  my  old  neighbor  Walpole,  who  is  rich,  and  who  would 
have  taken  her  without  any  dowry.  Ah  !  John  !  John  !"  said 
he,  addressing  one  of  his  clerks,  "  pay  attention  to  what  you 
are  doing,  or  I  shall  be  obliged  to  dismiss  you ;  do  you  not 
see  that  you  are  placing  that  box  wrong  in  its  case  ?" 

Then  he  put  on  his  spectacles  again,  and  continued  the 
examination  of  his  accounts. 

I  have  now  only  to  say,  that  what  you  have  just  read,  of 
natural  history,  customs,  historical  events,  facts,  details,  etc., 
is  rigorously  true,  and  that  in  all  this,  the  merit  consists  sim- 
ply in  having  collected  in  a  few  pages  what  was  found  most 
interesting  in  thirty  or  forty  volumes  of  travel. 


SONNET    TO 


THE  morning  music  of  this  summer  air; 

The  melody  of  birds,  that  have  no  thought 

That  they  are  Heaven's  messengers,  and  bear 

The  same  great  charge  of  Love  that  Jeisus  brought 

To  man ;  the  flowerets  culled  by  angels'  hands 

From  banks  of  brooks  that  flow  "  fast  by  the  throne 

Of  God,"  and  scattered  far  abroad  upon  the  lands; 

The  heaving  sea,  hushing  his  hollow  moan, 

The  while,  with  whispered  kiss,  he  greets  the  sands 

Whose  white  arms  ever  are  around  him  thrown  ; 

All  Nature's  sights  and  sounds  and  Love,  their  Priest, 

Bid  me,  a  "passionate  pilgrim,"  quick  depart, 

And  wander  far  into  the  golden  East 

To  her,  who  is  the  Mecca  of  my  heart. 


MOURN  NOT  WHEN  I  AM  GONE.  119 


For  the  Magnolia. 

MOUEN  NOT  WHEN  I  AM  GONE. 

BY  DR.  A.  I.  CUMMIKGS. 

WEEP  not  when  I  am  gone, 
Nor  let  thy  spirit  mourn  ; 

Forget  the  tear ! 
Yea,  let  ine  rest  unknown, 
Without  fond  mem'ry's  stone     . 
To  tell  that  there  alone 

My  name  is  dear ! 

Yes,  let  me  rest  forgot, 
In  some  secluded  spot, 

Beneath  the  shade, 
Where  o'er  my  lowly  bed, 
The  willow  branches  spread, 
And  Sow'rets  lift  their  heads 
To  bloom  and  fade. 

And  yet  I  would  not  be 
Forgotten  then  by  <Aee, 

My  gentle  friend ; 
Thy  memory  would  prove 
A  monument  I  love, 
Which  time  nor  chance  can  move, 

Nor  death  shall  rend. 

If  thy  affection  lives, 
And  o'er  my  pillow  gives 

The  secret  sigh ; 
If  on  fair  Virtue's  scroll, 
Appears  my  name,  my  soul 
Through  Grace  thus  rendered  "whole," 

'Twere  sweet  to  die  !  • 

Through  the  rich  promise  given, 
I  seek  a  home  in  Heaven, 

Above  this  clay ; 
While  Hope's  e'er-beaming  eye 
My  dwelling  sees  on  high, 
And  bids  my  spirit  fly 

To  endless  Day ! 

Mourn  not  when  I  retire 
From  life's  dim  fading  fire 

To  seek  the  tomb ; 
I  in  my  Savior  trust,- 
When  I  return  to  dust, 
Among  the  ransomed  just 

To  find  a  home. 


120    LEAVES  FROM  THE  NOTE  BOOK  OF  A  GOVERNESS, 

Let  memory  act  her  part, 
In  true  affection's  heart, — 

I  ask  no  more  : 
Then  at  my  grave  appear, 
But  shed  no  titter  tear, 
My  spirit  shall  be  near, 

Then  upward  soar. 

Into  thy  constant  heart 

To  soothe  each  anxious  smart, 

And  ease  each  pain  ; 
Tell  thou  thy  troubled  breast, 
Congenial  spirits  bless'd 
Within  the  grave  but  rest 

To  meet  again  ! 
Acworth,  N.  H.,  June,"  1846. 


For  the  Magnolia. 

LEAVES  FROM  THE  NOTE  BOOK  OF  A  GOVERNESS, 

OR    PICTURES    OF    THE    PAST. 

BY    LAURA    LOVELL. 
NO.     III. 

To  those  of  our  readers  who  are  not  familiar  with  South- 
ern life,  its  every-day  incidents  may  have,  as  they  had  to  the 
writer,  the  charm  of  novelty.  A  few  reminiscences,  however 
desultory,  may  not,  therefore,  be  unacceptable.  We  have 
described  Woodvale,  and  have  now  a  few  words  to  say  re- 
specting its  inhabitants.  These  were  a  lovely  young  widow 
with  three  little  girls,  three  nieces  and  a  nephew — the  latter, 
as  we  have  elsewhere  stated,  were  fatherless  and  motherless. 
Lucy  Gordon  was  about  fourteen,  and  no  child  ever  com- 
bined more  sweetness,  dignity  and  beauty.  Graceful  and 
elegant  as  her  mother,  she  was  even  more  matronly.  She 
was  the  directress  rather  than  the  sharer  of  the  other  child- 
ren's sports.  Like  them  she  had  her  dolls,  and  these  dolls 
visited  and  associated  with  the  other  wooden  ladies,  but  they 
were  rather  retained  as  subjects  for  her  skill  in  dress-making 


LEAVES  FROM  THE  NOTE  BOOK  OF  A  GOVERNESS.    LXi 

than  as  representatives  of  living  beings.  Mary,  the  second, 
about  twelve,  was  as  sprightly,  joyous  and  spirited  as  Lucy 
was  sedate  and  dignified.  She  entered  into  her  plays  with 
her  whole  soul,  and  often  wearied  herself  out  with  her  active 
sports.  She  was  very  nervous,  constantly  in  motion,  espe- 
cially in  school  •  hours,  and  so  abstracted  that  often  in  the 
midst  of  her  lessons  her  mind  would  be  away  off  in  some 
region  of  imagination  and  her  eye  fixed  in  deep  thought. 
Strange  to  say,  Mary  was  the  reader  of  the  family,  the  de- 
vourer  of  story-books.  Lucy  was  always  planning  a  dress  or 
bonnet,  or  making  cake,  or  starching  muslins.  But  the 
youngest  and  pet,  was  Lotte.  Without  being  beautiful  she 
was  so  amiable  and  bore  her  honors  so  meekly,  that  there 
was  very  little  danger  of  spoiling  her.  Three  children  more 
unlike  or  more  lovely,  are  rarely  found'  in  the  same  family. 
Their  mother  mingled  with  them  as  an  elder  sister.  I  never 
saw  her  use  much  authority;  they  loved  her  so  dearly  and 
were  so  proud  of  her,  that  they  seldom  intentionally  dis- 
obliged or  displeased  her.  But  in  a  Southern  family  there 
are  black  as  well  as  white  members  ;  and  these,  to  a  North- 
ern eye,  are  never-failing  subjects  of  interest.  The  first,  be- 
cause the  oldest,  was  Aunt  Abby,  the  cook,  whose  domain 
was  the  kitchen,  who  bent  almost  double,  wearing  a  man's 
cap  over  her  grayish  wool,  was  always  before  the  flaming  fire 
in  the  huge  fire-place,  or  gathering  sticks  in  the  forest  to  feed 
it,  or  stirring  up  Johnny-cake,  or  the  round,  snowy,  tempt- 
ing biscuit.  Aunt  Abby's  Johnny-cakes  baked  on  a  piece  of 
board  before  the  fire  were  perfectly  delicious,  though  made, 
as  she  said,  of  nothing  but  meal,  salt  and  Water.  Aunt  Abby 
was  a  very  pious  old  lady,  and  once  when  a  clergyman 
chanced  to  be  visiting  us,  was  invited  in  to  prayers.  I  was 
shocked  to  see  the  poor  old  woman  standing,  though  there 
were  several  vacant  chairs,  and  kneeling  where  there  was 
nothing  for  her  to  lean  against.  Blind  Rachel  deserves  the 
next  place.  She  was  a  remarkably  intelligent  mulatto,  but 
deprived  by  the  loss  of  sight,  of  the  ability  to  peform  much 
labor.  She  was  much  more  uneasy  and  discontented  than 


122    LEAVES  FROM  *HE  NOTE  BOOK  OF  A  GOVERNESS. 


the  others,  probably  owing  to  her  comparative  indolence.  It 
was  rare  to  find  her  in  good  humor  —  but  when  she  was  so,  she 
would  sing  us  long  ballads  in  that  nasal  tone  peculiar  to  the 
African.  She  expressed  herself  in  the  most  high-flown  lan- 
guage. "  You  needn't  be  so  complaisant,"  I  have  heard  her 
say  to  Phil,  a  full-blooded,  woolly-headed  negro,  with  the  most 
strongly  marked  characteristics  of  his  race.  "  The  Master 
above,"  and  his  designs  in  regard  to  the  colored  race,  were 
her  constant  theme.  No  one  seemed  so  sensitive  on  the  sub- 
ject of  their  bondage,  or  so  indignant,  notwithstanding  that 
her  infirmity  rendered  her  almost  a  useless  appendage  to  the 
establishment.  Eliza,  the  chamber-maid,  who  lived  in  •''  the 
quarter,"  a  log  house  at  a  little  distance  from  the  main  build- 
ing, had  two  little  children,  the  eldest  five,  the  youngest  just 
able  to  run  alone.  From  the  manner  in  which  they  roamed 
about  the  premises,  it  might  have  been  supposed  they  were 
as  free  as  the  other  cattle.  Robert  or  Bob,  and  Puss,  (a  fa- 
vorite pet  name  for  children)  whose  real  name  was  Mary 
Catherine,  were  little  aware  that  they  were  worth  some  three 
or  four  hundred  dollars  apiece  ;  not  that  any  kind  friend  had 
left  them  a  legacy  to  that  amount,  but  that  their  own  curly 
heads  and  black  forms,  were,  thanks  to  the  color  of  the  skin, 
of  this  value.  We  have  mentioned  Phil.  He  was  our  far- 
mer, coachman,  man  of  all  work.  He  had  great  musical 
taste,  and  was  the  proud  possessor  of  both  a  fiddle  and  a 
banjo.  The  former  was  his  constant  evening  amusement  — 
not  that  he  ever  played  a  tune  —  oh,  no  !  but  with  a  skill  su- 
perior to  that  of  Ole  Bull,  he  managed  to  draw  from  his 
unmusical  instrument,  hour  after  hour,  strains  which  could  be 
sung  or  danced  to  with  equal  facility.  It  was  a  great  treat 
to  little  Bob  to  hear  the  fiddle,  and  his  black  eyes  would 
glisten  in  the  fire-light  as  he  danced  with  his  little  bare  feet 
on  the  brick  floor  of  the  kitchen  till  you  would  think  them 
almost  worn  out.  No  ball-room  belle  ever  danced  so  grace- 
fully or  so  heartily.  But  I  have  neglected  to  mention  Jane 
and  Georgiana  —  the  former  Phil's  half-sister,  a  bright,  hand- 
some mulatto  of  eighteen,  the  companion  of  the  children, 


LEAVES  FROM  THE  NOTE  BOOK  OF  A  GOVERNESS.    123 

our  waiter  and  laundress.  Georgiana  was  about  twelve, 
coal  black,  with  shining  eyes  and  white  teeth.  She  was 
every  where  present  but  where  she  was  wanted.  She  be- 
longed particularly  to  Miss  Sophy,  the  eldest  of  the  nieces. 
It  was  her  duty  to  attend  upon  little  Etta,  dress  and  undress 
her ;  and  many  were  the  contests  which  the  little  pouting  fair 
one  held  with  her  maid,  and  many  were  the  complaints 
against  "Missy."  "Miss  Eliza,"  (the  name  by  which  the 
servants  called  Mrs.  Gordon)  "  Missy  wont  let  me  undress 
her;"  while  a  sweet  .infantine  voice  would  enter  a  protest  to 
Aunt  Eliza  against  the  proceedings  of  Georgiana.  If  we 
wanted  a  fire  in  our  little  school-room,  which  was  detached 
from  the  house,  Georgiana  was  summoned  to  build  it.  She 
would  ransack  the  neighboring  forest  for  brush ;  and  having 
collected  a  huge  pile,  go  into  the  house  after  fire,  and  on 
being  sent  for  after  our  patience  was  well-nigh  exhausted, 
would  be  found  busily  engaged  in  the  service  of  some  one 
else,  having  forgotten  all  about  it.  By  the  time  school  closed 
in  the  morning  we  had  a  fire,  blazing  away  at  vacancy  all 
noon-time,  and  dying  just  as  school  recommenced  in  the  af- 
ternoon, when  the  same  process  was  to  be  repeated.  When 
the  weather  grew  warm,  Georgiana  was  constantly  flitting  in 
and  out,  and  making  faces  at  the  open  door.  The  only  way 
to  be  rid  of  her  was  to  send  her  into  the  house  after  some- 
thing, for  then  she  never  returned. 

But  I  am  in  danger  of  prolonging  these  sketches,  which 
may  not  be  as  interesting  to  the  careless  reader  as  to  the  wri- 
ter. I  have  wished  to  introduce  my  little  pupils  and  the 
family  to  which  they  belonged,  that  the  incidents  which 
varied  our  quiet  lives,  might  be  better  understood  by  a  de- 
scription of  the  different  characters  who  figured  in  them. 
We  have  no  romances  to  relate,  dear  reader,  but  we  wish 
you  to  know  and  love  sweet  Woodvale  and  its  inhabitants,  as 
we  did. 


124  TO    SWITZERLAND. 


For  the  Magnolia. 

TO     SWITZERLAND. 

BY  REV.  A.  STEVENS. 

ROMANTIC  Suisse  !  still  are  thy  memories  dear  ; 
Thy  snow-crowned  peaks,  thy  crystal  mountain  rills, 
Meandering  midst  the  sloping  vineyards  bloom, 
While  blithesome  songs  of  love  and  liberty 
Blend  with  the  fanning  breeze  and  strains  of  birds, 
And  virgin  hands  the  purple  clusters  pluck  ; 
Thy  verdant  vales  !   with  adamantine  walls, 
Snow-topped  and  reaching  to  the  skies,  fenced  in  ; 
Sweet  garden  spots  of  earth  !   with  flowers  decked, 
While,  in  strange  contrast,  hoary  winter  bends, 
Delayed  and  charmed,  to  smile  upon  the  scene; 
Thy  lakes,  thy  beauteous  lakes  !  adorned  with  all 
The  ever-varying  hues  of  thy  glad  skies — 
Here  shadowing  forth  the  form  of  some  tall  cliff, 
Arid  there  the  vineyard's  gay  luxuriant  growth, 
While  on  their  placid  bosoms  wave  and  glide, 
Like  tilings  of  air,  fantastics  sails  of  skiffs. 

Sweet  Leman  !  on  thy  lovely  shores  full  oft 
My  youthful  footsteps  wandered  with  delight, 
And  oft  with  heart  entranced,  reclined  beneath 
The  shadowing  mountain  cliff,  I  drunk  from  thee 
Delicious  draughts' of  poetry,  till  thought 
Dissolved  away  in  airy  reverie  ! 
Thou  art  the  mirror  placed  by  nature's  hand, 
Reflecting  back  her  gayest,  loveliest  charms. 
Thy  verdant  shores  are  classic,  on  them  roamed 
The  Albion  bard  whose  reckless  muse  profane 
Here  felt  thy  inspiration,  pure,  intense, 
And  kindling  sung  in  chaster,  nobler  lays, 
Of  freedom  and  of  love,  such  as  thine  own  ! 
The  images  of  Julie,  Clare,  St.  Preux, 
Still  dwell  among  thy  beauteous  scenery. 
The  shades  of  Bonaventura,  of  Statil, 
Of  Gibbon,  Fernay's  patriarch,  and  him* 
Whose  thrilling  pen  drew  lines  of  fire,  haunt  yet 
Thy  sylvan  solitudes. 

MONT  BLANC  ! — Oft  have  mine  eyes  gazed  on  thy  brow. 
Thine  awful  brow  !  but  long  to  gaze  once  more 

*  Rousseau. 


EDITOR'S  TABLE.  125 

Before  they  close  on  earth.     Thou  art,  dread  peak, 
Alone,  without  a  brother,  like  the  God  . 

Whose  hand  almighty  made  and  holds  thee  up, 
Sublime  in  thine  own  solitude  !     The  storms 
Pay  worship  round  thee;  winds  and  thunderbolts 
Go  from  thy  foot,  like  monarch's  heralds  swift, 
And  all  the  mountain  tops  responsive  roll 
Their  echoing  homage  on,  with  trembling  awe  ! 
The  generations  of  the  past  have  gazed 
On  thee,  but  they  have  gone ;  ten  thousand  more 
May  look  and  die;  but  thou  wilt  still  remain, — 
For  thou,  dread  genius  of  the  mountain  storm,    ' 
Shalt  only  sink  when  nature  sinks  and  dies, 
When  suns  go  out,  and  stars  from  heaven  fall. 

Land  of  the  glacier  and  the  avalanche  ! 
Thou  wert  not  made  to  be  the  home  of  slaves, 
The  heart  among  thy  lofty  heights  beats  free, 
And  trembles  not  at  sceptres  or  at  chains. 
God  hath  ordained  thee  freedom's  mountain  home, 
And  built  thy  battlements  up  to  his  throne! 
Firm  hast  thou  stood  in  liberty's  great  cause, 
Midst  falling  states  and  changing  monarchies. 
Still  stand  !  stand  like  thine  everlasting  hills! 
The  spirits  of  thy  Tells  and  Winkelreids 
Are  yet  abroad,  and  thou  needst  never  fall ! 


EDITOR'S   TABLE. 

THE  HOWITTS.  An  English  correspondent  of  the  Boston  Atlas  gave  UB, 
a  short  time  since,  some  delightful  sketches  of  the  Hewitts,  in  whom  every 
body  is  interested.  As  will  be  seen  by  the  following  extract,  we  may  yet 
hope  to  see  Miss  Bremer  among  us.  Describing  a  visit  to  them,  he  says : 

Mr.  Howitt,  who  is,  at  present,  editor  of  the  "  People's  Journal,"  in  which 
is  a  beautiful  memoir  of  the  Hutchinsons,  from  his  own  pen,  asked  me  many 
questions  respecting  America.  My  accounts  of  Lowell  greatly  interested 
him.  He  said  that  himself  and  Mrs.  Howitt  had,  sometime  since,  an  idea 
of  visiting  America.  An  American  gentleman  had  told  them  that,  if  they 
did,  they  would  not  only  be  warmly  welcomed,  but  that  their  progress 
through  the  States  would  be  "like  a  triumphal  march."  "That  made  me 
hesitate,"  he  remarked ;  "  I  should  not  like  to  be  made  a  show  of— but  it  is 
very  likely  we  may  go,  quietly,  one  of  these  days.'' 

I  remarked  that,  whilst  I  was  in  America,  Miss  Bremer  had  been  ex- 
pected to  visit  the  "Land  of  Washington." 

"And  so  she  intends  to,"  said  Mrs.  Howitt;  "but  not  for  twelve  months 
to  come.  It  is,  however,  quite  certain  that  she  will  go." 

Mrs.  Howitt  remarked  that  she  had  never  seen  Miss  Bremer,  although 
she  had  enjoyed  such  an  intimate  literary  connexion  with  her.  So,  per- 
haps, the  Americans  may  behold  the  interesting  and  popular  Swede,  as  well 
as  her  able  and  no  less  interesting  translator. 


126  EDITOR'S  TABLE. 

The  Howitts  are  enthusiastic  lovers  of  their  literary  pursuits,  and  anxious 
to  educate  their  children  in  the  best  possible  manner,  and  therefore  live  a 
retired  and  domestic  life.  Though  belonging  to  the  Society  of  Friends,  and 
attached  to  its  great  principles  of  civil,  moral  and  religious  liberty,  they 
have  long  ago  abandoned  its  peculiarities,  and  in  manners,  dress  and  lan- 
guage,belong  only,  to  the  world.  For  the  honor  of  literature  we  may  safely 
say,  that  among  the  many  consolatory  proofs  in  modern  times,  of  how  much 
literature  may  contribute  to  the  happiness  of  life,  the  case  of  the  Howitts 
is  one  of  the  most  striking.  The  love  of  literature  was  the  origin  of  their 
acquaintance;  its  pursuit  has  been  the  hand-in-hand  bond  of  the  most  per- 
fect happiness  of  a  long  married  life  ;  and  we  may  further  add,  for  the  honor 
of  womanhood,  that  while  our  authoress  sends  forth  her  delightful  works 
in  unbroken  succession  to  the  four  quarters  of  the  globe,  William  Howitt 
has  been  heard  to  declare,  that  he  will  challenge  any  woman,  be  she  who 
she  may,  who  never  wrote  a  line,  to  match  his  good  woman  in  the  able 
management  of  a  large  household,  at  the  same  time  that  she  fills  her  own 
little  world  of  home  with  the  brightness  of  her  own  heart  and  spirit." 


We  commend  the  following  from  Hood's  "  Literary  Reminiscences"  to 
our  correspondents.  They  are  all  sufficient  in  themselves  without  preface 
or  comments. 

"  My  lucubrations  were  generally  committed  to  paper,  not  in  what  is 
commonly  called  written  hand,  but  an  imitation  of  print.  Such  a  course 
hints  suspiciously  of  type  and  ante-type,  and  a  longing  eye  to  the  Row, 
whereas,  it  was  adopted  simply  to  make  the  reading  more  easy,  and  thus 
enable  me  the  more  readily  to  form  a  judgment  of  the  effect  of  my  little 
efforts.  It  is  more  difficult  than  may  be  supposed  to  decide  on  the  value 
of  a  work  in  MS.,  and  especially  when  the  handwriting  presents  only  a 
swell  mob  of  bad  characters,  that  must  be  severally  examined  and  re-exam- 
ined to  arrive  at  the  merits  or  demerits  of  the  case.  Print  settles  it,  as 
Coleridge  used  to  saj;  and  to  be  candid,  I  have  more  than  once  reversed, 
or  greatly  modified  a  previous  verdict,  on  seeing  a  rough  proof  from  the 
press.  But,  as  editors  too  well  know,  it  is  next  to  impossible  to  retain  the 
tune  of  a  stanza,  or  the  drift  of  an  argument,  whilst  the  mind  has  to  scram- 
ble through  a  patch  of  scribble-scrabble  as  stiff  as  a  gorse  cover.  The 
beauties  of  the  piece  will  as  naturally  appear  to  disadvantage  through  such 
a  medium  as  the  features  of  a  pretty  woman  through  a  bad  pane  of  glass  ; 
and  without  doubt,  many  a  tolerable  article  has  been  consigned  hand  over 
head  to  the  Balaam  Box  for  want  of  a  fair  copy.  Wherefore,  O  ye  Poets 
and  Prosers,  who  aspire  to  write  in  Miscellanies,  and  above  all,  O  ye  palpi- 
tating Untried,  who  meditate  the  offer  of  your  maiden  essays  to  established 
periodicals,  take  care,  pray  ye  take  care,  to  cultivate  a  good,  plain,  bold, 
round  text.  Set  up  Tompkins  as  well  as  Pope  or  Dryden  for  a  model,  and 
have  an  eye  to  your  pothooks.  Some  persons  hold  that  the  best  writers 
are  those  who  write  the  best  hands,  and  I  have  known  the  conductor  of  a 
magazine  to  be  converted  by  a  crabbed  MS.  to  the  same  opinion.  Of  all 
things,  therefore,  be  legible ;  and  to  that  end  practice  in  penmanship.  If 
you  have  never  learned,  take  six  lessons  of  Mr.  Carstairs.  Be  sure  to  buy 
the  best  paper,  the  best  ink,  the  best  pens,  and  then  sit  down  and  do  the 
best  you  can ;  as  the  schoolboys  do,  put  out  your  tongue,  and  take  pains. 
So  shall  ye  haply  escape  the  rash  rejection  of  a  jaded  editor ;  so,  having 
got  in  your  hand,  it  is  possible  that  your  head  may  follow ;  and  so,  last  not 
least,  ye  may  fortunately  avert  those  awful  mistakes  of  the  press  which 
sometimes  ruin  a  poet's  sublimest  effusion,  by  pantomimically  transforming 
his  roses  into  noses,  his  angels  into  angles,  and  all  his  happiness  into  pap- 
piness." 


SABBATH   EVE. 

SOLO    AND    QUARTETT. 

MUSIC    COMPOSED   FOR    THE    MAGNOLIA, 
BY  I.  N.  METCALF. 


— I ^_^_tf^- 

ndz^z^i:   'zr*z:|  ___ 


There  is    a  time  when  moments  flow,  More  happily  than 


:  ---  •  --  :  ---  :  ----  ---  -r 

*—  aJ  —  H  —  H  —  i  -  T*  —  •  --  hr 

^"r-*-1—*- 

^=t—   lST:*-:^z:«;T 


all  beside,  It     is    of  all  the  times  below,  A  Sabbath  at  the 


i — — 

>-j — 


EE 

-4? 


ev  -  en  tide;    Oh!  then  the  set  -  ting  sun  shines  fair,  And 

-S-   -0- 1 


u    — Sr — £ *t ^ — m\  ~&  ~ — ^ — M — a> — r'^l  ~ — 1 — # * — 

Q |K — 10 ^ ^ — T^T'I W * *"T 1 i * ' — 


all    be  -  low     and      all      above,  The   various  forms  of 


EEEE 


H b*»- 


:=p=tir: 

it <  — ~ 


MUSIC — SABBATH   EVE. 


J 


na  -  ture  wear,  One    u  -  ni  -  ver  - 
/?\ 


And  then  the  peace  which  Jesus  brought, 

The  life  of  grace  eternal  beams, 
And  we  by  his  example  taught, 

Will  prize  the  life  his  love  redeems. 
Delightful  scene — a  world  at  rest ; 

A  God  of  love — no  grief,  no  fear ; 
A  heavenly  hope — a  peaceful  breast 

A  smile  unclouded  by  a  tear ! 


129 

FLOWERS. 


For  the  Magnolia. 


Stars,  that  in  earth's 

Stars  they  are,  wherein  we  read  our  history 
ers  and  seers  of  eld  ; 


But  not  less  in  the  bright  flowerets 
Stands  the  revelation  of  H.S  love. 

Bright  and  glorious  is  that  revelation 

Written  all  over  this  great  world  of  ours  , 

Making  evident  our.      creat.on  • 
in  these  stars  of  earth,—  tnese  g 

* 


Everywhere  about  us  are  they  ^^ 

Some  like  stars  to  tell  us  Spnng  »  horn 
Others,  their  blue  eyes  with  tears  oerflowmg, 

Stand  like  Ruth  amid  the  golden  corn, 


Not  alone  in  Spring's  ^^^'^j 

And  in  Summer's  green-emblazoned  field, 

But  in  arms  of  brave  old  Autumn  swearmg 

In  the  centre  of  his  brazen  shield  ; 
Not  alone  in  meadows  and  gree,  >  all  leys 

On  the  mountain-top  and  by  the  brink 
Of  sequestered  pools  in  woodland  valleys, 
Where  the  slaves  of  Nature  stoop  to  drink, 

Not  alone  in  her  vast  dome  of  glory, 
Not  on  graves  of  bird  and  beast  alone, 

But  in  old  cathedrals,  high  and  hoary 
On  the  tombs  of  heroes  carved  in  ston, 

Tn  the  cottage  of  the  rudest  peasant, 

In  ancestrll  homes,  whose  crumbling  towers 

Speaking  of  the  Past  unto  the  ^esent 
Tell  us  of  the  ancient  Games  of  Flowers  , 


VOL.  II. 


130  PRECEPT  AND  EXAMPLE. 

In  all  places,  then,  and  in  all  seasons, 

Flowers  expand  their  light  and  soul-like  wings, 

Teaching  us  by  most  persuasive  reasons 
How  akin  they  are  to  human  things. 

And  with  child-like,  credulous  affection 

We  behold  their  tender  buds  expand  ; 
Emblems  of  our  own  great  resurrection, 

Emblems  of  the  bright  and  better  land. 

LONGFELLOW. 


For  the  Magnolia. 

PRECEPT  AND  EXAMPLE. 

BV  MARIE. 
PART  I. 

MRS.  RUSSELL  was  sitting  alone  in  her  splendid  drawing- 
room.  She  had  just  said  the  formal  adieus  to  fashionable 
company,  and  languid  and  feeble  from  her  effort  to  entertain 
her  gay  visitors,  the  invalid  mistress  sat  down  on  her  sofa. 
The  afternoon  was  waning  toward  sunset,  and  she  wished, 
indeed,  that  the  hour  of  repose  had  already  arrived  ;  but  she 
took  an  elegant  volume  of  Schiller  in  her  hand,  and  turning 
to  his  exquisite  "  Maid  of  Orleans,"  she  forgot  her  exhaustion 
in  her  admiration  of  the  illustrious  French  heroine.  The 
sound  of  the  bell  and  the  immediate  entrance  of  a  servant, 
attended  by  her  physician,  aroused  her. 

"  I  am  right  glad  to  see  you,  Dr.  Wellesley,"  she  said,  as 
she  held  out  her  hand  ;  "  indeed,  I  have  been  impatient  for 
you  to  come,  this  hour,  for  I  want  you  should  give  me  a  tonic 
that  will  make  me  brilliant  for  the  evening — I  am  terribly  lan- 
guid now — indeed,  I  can  scarcely  hold  up  my  head." 

"  I  perceive  you  are  so,  madam,"  replied  Dr.  Wellesley ; 
"  and  I  am  sure  I  should  be  acting  more  in  conformity  to 
reason,  as  well  as  professional  judgment,  to  give  you  a  nar- 


PRECEPT  AND  EXAMPLE.  131 

cotic,  which  would  send  you  sleeping  for  the  next  ten  hours, 
certainly.  The  medicine  you  need  more  than  any  other,  is 
rest  from  the  perpetual  and  dangerous  excitement  in  which 
you  live." 

"  O,  Doctor ! — excitement  is  my  life — my  food  and  rai- 
ment, almost,  and  always  was.  But  I  must  have  something 
to  make  me  feel  better  for  this  evening.  My  husband  says 
the  -  —  street  Theatre  is  recommended  by  an  unusual  con- 
stellation of  foreign  talent,  to-night,  and  he  will  be  very  sorely 
disappointed  if  I  decline  going." 

"  The  theatre,  Mrs.  Russell !  you  are  surely  insane  to  think 
of  exposing  yourself  to  a  heated  atmosphere,  fuming  up,  I 
was  going  to  say  from  the  bottomless  pit,  and  to  the  night 
air,  dressed  as  ladies  dress  for  the  theatre  !  I  assure  you  my 
prescriptions  can  be  of  no  avail  for  such  a  presumptuous  pa- 
tient. It  is  madness  for  you  to  think  of  such  a  project.  And 
I  am  positive,  madam,  if  Mr.  Russell  is  the  husband  he  ought 
to  be,  he  will  throw  every  obstacle  he  can  in  your  way." 

"  I  know  you  hate  the  theatre,  Dr.  Wellesley — but  my  hus- 
band and  I  have  an  irresistible  passion  for  it." 

"Thank  heaven,  I  do  hate  the  theatre,  and  look  upon  it  as 
the  mightiest  engine  of  moral  death  the  adversaries  of  mo- 
rality and  holiness  bring  to  this  work.  I  will  carry  my  hos- 
tility with  me  to  my  grave  ;  and  the  time  will  come,  believe 
me,  my  dear  Mrs.  Russell,  when  YOU  will  call  my  warfare 
philanthropy.  Would  you  dare  expose  your  fair  young 
daughter  to  such  a  pestilence  ?" 

"  O,  never  !"  earnestly  replied  Mrs.  Russell.  "  We  have 
never  taken  her,  and  we  never  design  to  do  so.  She  has  all 
the  enthusiasm  of  her  father  and  mother  both,  and  her  mind 
is  not  sufficiently  mature  to  take  theatrical  scenes  for  what 
they  are  worth — to  receive  the  good  and  reject  the  evil. 
We  discourage  her  whenever  she  talks  of  going — but  to  own 
the  truth,  Dr.  Wellesley,  she  is  getting  rather  clamorous  for 
the  indulgence,  and  I  have  told  my  husband  that  we  must 
renounce  the  amusement  ourselves,  or  gratify  her,  lest  she 
should  charge  us  with  inconsistency." 


132  PRECEPT  AND  EXAMPLE. 

"  Wisely  thought  of,  madam — I  have  only  to  suggest  that 
parental  precept,  unsustained  or  contradicted  by  example, 
makes  a  very  equivocal  impression  on  the  plastic  mind  of 
childhood.  I  think  it  would  distress  you  and  my  friend  Mr. 
Russell,  to  have  your  Isabella  become  an  actress." 

"Dear  sir!  don't  mention  the  possibility!  it  makes  me 
faint  only  to  think  of  it.  I  should  die,  I  am  positive,  under 
such  an  affliction." 

"  Well,  madam,  she  possesses  a  rare  histrone  talent,  and 
would  make  a  most  bewitching  appearance  on  the  stage. 
But  if  you  love  your  only  child  better  than  you  love  passing 
amusement,  I  caution  you  to  withdraw  all  patronage  from 
such  a  seductive  avenue  to  vice  as  the  theatre.  And  farther, 
I  feel  morally  bound  to  tell  you  that  the  remaining  incidents 
of  your  own  history  can  be  written  in  a  few  lines,  if  you  per- 
sist in  the  course  you  are  now  pursuing." 

"  I  am  more  than  half  a  convert  to  your  opinion  about  the 
theatre,  Dr.  Wellesley,"  replied  Mrs.  Russell,  "  but  I  do  not 
apprehend  my  ill  health  to  be  any  thing  more  than  a  tempo- 
rary debility,  occasioned  by  exhaustion,  and  I  really  flatter 
myself  I  shall  soon  be  well  again."  The  physician  shook  his 
head  doubtfully,  recommended  prudence,  and  retired. 

Mrs.  Russell  rose  from  her  seat,  and  with  a  restlessness  of 
soul  and  a  self-consternation  she  had  never  permitted  herself 
to  entertain  before,  she  proceeded  to  her  own  parlor.     But 
she  was  a  gay  and  very  fashionable  woman,  and  her  husband 
a  devotee  to  every  kind  of  public  amusement,  and  she  waited 
impatiently  for  his  return  home,  that  his  cheerfulness  and  af- 
fection might  dissipate  the  unrest  in  her  bosom  she  could  not 
bear  to  endure.     She  felt  the  truth  of  every  word  Dr.  Welles- 
ley  had  uttered  ;  but  she  shut  out  the  troublesome  lineaments 
of  the  picture  from  her  sight.     She  threw  herself  on  a  sofa, 
and  leaning  her  fair  cheek  on  her  hand,  a  tear  started  to  her 
eye.     Just  at  that  moment  her  husband  entered.     "  Why,  my 
beloved  !"  he  exclaimed — "  you  look  like  a  statue  of  discon- 
solate misery — pale  and  distressed — what  has  happened,  my 
own  Ev&lyn  ?    Are  you  ill  ?    I  am  glad  we  are  going  to  have 


PRECEPT  AND  EXAMPLE.  133 

such  rare  amusement  this  evening,  for  I  am  more  than  half 
afraid  you  would  be  a  hypochondriac  confirmed,  before  morn- 
ing, if  there  were  nothing  to  divert  you  ;"  and  he  threw  his 
arm  around  her  and  drew  her  to  his  bosom  as  fondly  as  when 
he  first  called  her  his  bride.  "  How  hot  you  are,  Evelyn !" 
he  continued,  as  he  pressed  her  thin  white  hand  to  his  lips ; 
"  you  need  the  air,  I  know  you  do.  Let  us  hasten  tea,  and 
ride  before  it  is  time  for  the  doors  to  open.  I  have  engaged 
your  favorite  carriage."  Thank  you,  husband  ;  you  are  al- 
ways kind — but  somehow  I  don't  feel  quite  like  enjoying  the 
theatre  to-night." 

"  That  is  only  because  you  are  a  little  low-spirited.  Noth- 
ing like  it,  my  dear,  as  we  have  often  experienced,  to  banish 
melancholy,"  replied  Mr.  Russell. 

"  But,  Russell,  our  child" — the  mother  suddenly  stopped, 
for  at  that  moment  the  door  opened,  and  as  fair  and  pure  a 
creature  as  ever  blessed  the  heart  of  parents,  bounded  into 
the  room  with  the  agility  and  gracefulness  of  a  forest  fawn. 

"  Isabella,  my  daughter,  come,"  said  her  father,  as  she 
threw  down  her  hat  and  ran  towards  the  fond  arms  which 
were  extended  to  receive  her.  "  O,  pa,  I  must  go  to-night — 
I  must ;  there  is  to  be  beautiful  dancing,  and  Clara  Osborne 
is  going."  "  Indeed,  my  dear? — where  ?  you  have  not  men- 
tioned where  you  must  go,"  said  Mr.  Russell. 

"  O  to  the street  Theatre.  You  and  ma  are  going, 

and  you  must  take  me  too."  "  I  have  but  two  tickets,  Belle, 
I  don't  know  as  I  can  get  another."  "  Pshaw,  Pa,  you  know 
you  can,"  said  Isabella,  and  she  laughed  right  merrily  at  her 
father's  evasion.  "  Isabella,  I  don't  think  it  best  for  you  to 
go,"  interposed  Mrs.  Russell,  for  she  saw  her  husband  yield- 
ing. "  My  mother,"  fretted  the  child,  "  you  and  father  go 
ever  so  many  times,  and  /  want  to  go  too."  Mrs.  Russell 
felt  an  intolerable  pang  of  self-reproach,  and  she  wondered 
what  her  husband  felt. 

"  My  daughter,  little  girls  seldom  attend  the  theatre.  In 
two  years,  when  you  get  to  be  a  young  lady,  you  shall  be 
gratified.  But  I  had  almost  forgotten  to  tell  you  that  your 


134  PRECEPT  AND  EXAMPLE. 

dancing-master  called  to-day,  and  requested  me  to  send  you 
an  hour  earlier  than  usual — he  wants  you  particularly  for 
some  new  waltz.  Go  now, .let  Julia  dress  you;  have  you 
seen  your  new  frock,  Madame  Lagrange  has  just  sent  home  ?" 

The  dancing-school  and  the  new  dress  quite  banished  the 
theatre  for  the  present,  and  Isabella  ran  away  to  do  her  moth- 
er's bidding. 

Tea  was  served,  and  after  tea  Mrs.  Russell  sat  still  for  her 
maid  to  dress  her,  scarcely  knowing  or  caring  whether  this 
or  that  article  of  glittering  jewelry  was  fastened  upon  her. 
Conscience  was  uncomfortably  busy  and  faithful,  and  the 
power  of  her  example  on  her  beautiful  child,  seemed  to  appal 
her.  Bnt  the  presence  of  associates  gay  as  herself,  the  gor- 
geousness  of  the  drama,  the  music,  the  applause  that  rang 
from  the  pit  to  the  ceiling,  making  the  building  tremble,  and 
the  unaffected  enjoyment  of  her  husband,  quite  diverted  her 
mind  from  sadder  thoughts,  and  reconciled  her  to  the  pursuit 
of  such  pleasure,  or  rather  stupified  her  to  its  consequences. 
Dr.  Wellesley  and  his  admonitions,  and  his  true  friendship 
were  all  forgotten  in  the  bewildering  fascination  of  the  scene 
before  her. 

PART  II. 

Isabella  Russell  was  the  only  surviving  of  four  lovely  chil- 
dren. One  by  one  they  had  been  taken  in  their  soft  rest  on 
a  mother's  bosom,  and  borne  away  to  heaven — sweet  rose- 
buds plucked  by  the  angel  of  the  covenant  to  unfold  and 
bloom  under  perpetual  and  eternal  sunshine.  The  parents 
had  bowed  in  agony  to  the  chastisement  of  the  divine  hand, 
but  it  was  with  a  rebellious  heart,  because  they  could  not  re- 
sist;  but  they  had  failed  to  read  the  solemn  lesson  written  in 
such  vital  characters,  and  instead  of  discovering  that  the 
foundation  on  which  they  had  erected  the  fabric  of  their  hap- 
piness was  vanity  and  a  shadow,  and  seeking  for  a  firmer 
basis,  they  had  the  more  madly  plunged  into  tl\e  giddy  vortex 
to  drown  their  misery  and  divest  of  its  bitterness  their  cup  of 
suffering. 


PRECEPT  AND  EXAMPLE.  135 

Isabella  was  their  youngest  born,  arid  a  child  of  rare  and 
enviable  beauty — the  nucleus  about  which  the  hopes  and  fan- 
cies of  her  idolatrous  parents  confidently  and  proudly  clus- 
tered. Fourteen  sunny  summer*  had  passed  over  her,  and 
in  form,  and  face,  and  heart  she  was  yet  so  infantile  her  pa- 
rents still  looked  upon  her  as  a  pet  plaything,  to  caress  and 
amuse,  like  a  child  of  far  fewer  years.  But  she  was  less  a 
child  than  she  seemed.  There  was  an  unfolded  grace  in  ev- 
ery motion,  a  depth  and  keenness  in  the  light  of  tier  large, 
luminous  black  eyes,  and  a  witchery  in  the  suddenly  varying 
rose-tint  on  her  silken  cheek,  which  revealed  that  the  foun- 
tains of  child-like  simplicity  had  been  broken  up,  and  had 
become  streams  of  stronger  and  maturer  thought,  and  a  fresh 
wild  uncontrolled  enthusiasm.  Young  as  she  was,  she  was 
already  distinguished  in  the  ball-room,  and  she  never  was  so 
full  of  life,  so  full  of  rich  and  sparkling  beauty,  as  when  she 
floated  noiselessly  as  a  spirit  in  the  bewildering  mazes  of  the 
waltz.  It  was  the  intensity  of  her  relish  for  excitement  of 
the  strongest  kind  which  had  prohibited  her  the  only  amuse- 
ment she  had  ever  asked  in  vain.  But  the  very  proscription 
had  stimulated  her  appetite  to  a  passion,  and  she  resolved  to 
gratify  it. 

A  few  days  after  the  events  before  detailed,  Mr.  Russell 
was  called  into  the  country  for  two  or  three  weeks,  on  busi- 
ness, and  was  accompanied  by  his  wife,  leaving  their  daugh- 
ter in  charge  of  the  faithful  old  housekeeper  and  nurse.  The 
evening  of  their  return  to  the  city,  Mr.  Russell  hastened  home 
from  his  office  and  announced  to  his  wife  that  there  was  to 
be  a  great  attraction  at  the  theatre — the  greatest  of  the  sea- 
son— so  said  the  bills — a  fairy  dance.  "  We  must  go,  my 
dear — you  look  like  enjoying  it,  after  your  late  rustication." 

"  Well,  Russell,"  replied  his  wife,  "I  am  rather  fatigued 
by  our  ride  to-day,  but  we  will  go.  I  feel  a  little  anxious  to 
see  our  Isabella  first,  however — Julia  says  she"  has  been  out 
with  a  little  dancing  party  this  afternoon,  and  she  expects  her 
home  early." 

"  It  is  time  to  dress,  this  moment,  Evelyn,"  said  her  hus- 


136  PRECEPT  AND  EXAMPLE. 

band.  "  You  will  find  her  in  bed  and  asleep  safely,  when 
you  get  home.  I  saw  her  at  the  window  at  Mrs.  Osborne's — 
she  came  out  for  a  kiss,  and  asked  permission  to  stay  a  little 
later,  as  she  presumed  we  would  be  absent  this  evening/' 

Mrs.  Russell  was  half  satisfied,  and  only  half — for  there 
dwelt  in  her  bosom  a  mine  of  maternal  tenderness.  But  she 
arrayed  herself  for  the  theatre,  and  in  a  short  time  she  was 
receiving  the  heartless  welcomes  of  her  theatre-loving  associ- 
ates. Wealth  and  fashion,  and  beauty  and  talent  were  there 
— a  gay  and  glad  assemblage — a  meeting  together  of  the 
highest  and  lowest  elements  which  constitute  the  fabric  of 
society. 

The  theatre  was  magnificently  illuminated — the  scenery 
unusually  gorgeous — and  the  play  with  which  the  entertain- 
ment opened  brilliantly  performed.  Mr.  Russell  "  was  enrap- 
tured," he  declared  to  his  fair  neighbor  on  the  other  side. 
But  his  wife  found  it  impossible  to  assume  so  much  satisfac- 
tion, and  she  could  not  conceal  her  restlessness  from  her  hus- 
band. He  rallied  her  on  her  melancholy  in  such  a  place, 
and  her  fashionable  friends  sought  to  interest  her  in  what  was 
passing  before  her.  In  vain — the  mother's  heart  was  yearn- 
ing for  her  child.  Before  the  first  act  was  concluded,  she 
turned  to  her  husband — "  Surely,  you  cannot  wish  to  stay 
through  the  evening,  Mr.  Russell.  I  am  heart-sick  and  an 
indefinable  foreboding  oppresses  me — I  wish  I  had  seen  Isa- 
bella before  we  came."  "  Evelyn,"  laughed  Mr.  Russell, 
"  you  are  positively  getting  superstitious  !  When  the  dance 
comes  on  you  will  be  more  amused."  "  I  am  not  in  a  mood 
to  see  a  dance  to-night,  dearest,"  replied  his  wife  sadly. 
"  Pray  go  with  me  now — I  am  sure  I  never  can  come  to  the 
theatre  again."  "  O,  wait  a  little,  do,  unless  you  are  really 
ill,  Evelyn !" 

The  play  was  concluded,  and  the  melody  from  the  accom- 
plished orchestra,  diverted  Mrs.  Russell  from  her  painful  mu- 
sings. At  length  the  curtain  slowly  rose  and  displayed  in- 
deed a  fairy  palace — truly  a  scene  for  the  gambols  of  houris. 
In  a  few  moments,  at  the  extreme  back-ground  of  the  pal- 


PRECEPT  AND  EXAMPLE.  137 

ace,  appeared  a  small,  slight  figure,  superbly  dressed,  as  it 
werp,  in  a  silver  gossamer.  She  advanced  in  full  view  of  the 
admiring  audience,  and  an  irresistible  burst  of  applause  rang 
through  the  immense  building,  as  in  the  most  accurate  meas- 
ure the  fairy  creature  went  through  the  changes  of  the  dance, 
with  a  gracefulness  and  elegance  which  even  that  distin- 
guished stage  had  never  before  presented.  Bouquets  and 
wreaths  of  rich  and  rare  construction,  floated  through  the  air 
to  greet  such  an  exquisite  vision — the  incarnation  of  peerless 
beauty  seemed  the  youthful  dancer.  No  rouge  tinged  her 
fair  cheek,  for  the  tint  that  Nature  had  painted,  was  deepened 
by  excitement  to  a  glow  which  even  the  rose  might  envy — 
her  dark,  glorious  eye  sparkled — her  rich,  luxuriant  ringlets 
hung  in  a  golden  flood  over  her  neck.  She  caught  a  wreath 
of  white  flowers  in  its  descent,  and  gracefully  twined  it  with 
her  hair,  as  she  still  danced  on.  The  house  actually  thun- 
dered, and  the  enthusiasm  of  the  actress  waxed  more  and 
more  intense — her  eye  grew  brighter,  and  her  step  grew 
lighter,  as  peal  after  peal  drowned  the  music  of  the  orchestra. 

As  soon  as  the  dancer  had  appeared  on  the  stage,  a  cold 
shudder  crept  slowly  over  Mrs.  Russell's  whole  frame.  She 
clasped  her  hands  convulsively  and  fixed  her  eyes  upon  her, 
as  it  had  been  her  death  gaze.  Her  blood  seemed  suddenly 
to  freeze  in  its  channels,  and  her  heart  to  stand  still  in  her 
bosom.  As  the  actress  advanced  Mrs.  Russell  turned  her 
face  toward  her  husband — "  our  child  /"  she  gasped,  in  a  suf- 
focating whisper.  Mr.  Russell's  face  was  pale  as  the  face  of 
the  dead,  for  he  too  had  recognized  his  beautiful  daughter, 
in  splendid  but  indecent  costume,  degraded  to  the  stage! 
He  trembled  like  a  frightened  child,  but  with  a  stern  resolu- 
tion, he  said,  "  Evelyn,  for  heaven's  sake  and  for  mine,  if 
you  have  any  heroism,  I  pray  you  summon  it  now — death, 
rather  than  the  agony  of  this  moment !" 

The  mother  sat  like  a  statue,  till  the  dance  was  concluded, 
gazing  on  the  sylph-like  creature  before  her,  and  then  the 
stormy  applause  from  the  house,  and  the  clamorous  tempest 
from  the  pit,  insisted  on  its  repetition  a  second  and  a  third 


138  PRECEPT  AND  EXAMPLE. 

time.  Oh,  the  agony  and  indignation  of  those  proud  pa- 
rents, to  see  their  daughter  a  slave  for  the  sensual  amuse- 
ment of  the  vice  and  sin  and  crime  congregated  in  the  pit  of 
a  great  theatre  !  The  acclamations  sounded  to  the  suffering 
father  and  almost  lifeless  mother,  like  the  shrieks  of  demons. 
But  excitement  and  enthusiasm,  and  wild  delight,  failed  to 
sustain  the  frail  child  through  the  fatigue  of  a  third  appear- 
ance. Darkness  seemed  to  gather  round  her,  even  amid  that 
blaze  of  light ;  she  stretched  her  arms  toward  her  father,  and 
as  the  words  "  my  father ,"  faintly  articulated,  reached  his  ear, 
she  reeled  and  fell  pale  and  senseless  among  the  flowers 
which  had  been  so  profusely  showered  to  express  the  admi- 
ration she  had  inspired. 

The  curtain  instantly  dropped  and  the  house  vvas  thrown 
into  confusion.  Mrs.  Russell  could  endure  no  more ;  she 
closed  her  eyes  as  if  to  shut  out  the  painful  reality,  and  was 
unconsciously  borne  in  the  arms  of  a  gentleman  to  whom 
her  husband  committed  her,  to  a  carriage,  while  he  hastened 
to  claim  his  child.  But  the  adroit  manager  had  immediately 
relieved  himself  of  the  responsibility,  by  sending  a  carriage 
to  convey  her  home. 

When  Mr.  Russell  entered  his  house,  she  was  lying  on  the 
sofa,  and  his  miserable  wife  recovered  from  her  swoon,  was 
removing  the  splendid  ornaments  which  had  decorated  her 
for  the  foul  appetite  of  a  promiscuous  public.  And  their 
faithful  and  assiduous  friend,  Dr.  Wellesloy,  was  there  too,  in 
the  hour  of  trial,  administering  with  paternal  anxiety,  restora- 
tives to  the  almost  dying  girl.  A  protracted  brain  fever  suc- 
ceeded ;  but  Isabella  Russell  was  graciously  spared  from  so 
early  a  grave,  and  the  chastisement  and  the  mercy  were  alike 
indellibly  engraven  on  the  hearts  of  her  parents,  leading  them 
to  the  pursuit  of  a  higher  pleasure  than  the  world  can  offer, 
even  durable  riches  in  righteousness,  and  a  treasure  in  heaven. 


A    DREAM. 


For  the  Magnolia. 

A     DREAM. 

IT  was  a  balmji  summer  afternoon — 
Soft  stole  the  breezes  by  among  the  flowers, 
Bearing  upon  their  wings  the  perfum'd  breath 
Of  the  rich  rose,  and  the  sweet  eglantine. 
No  sound  was  heard  above  the  bee's  low  song, 
And  the  soft  flutter  of  the  humming-bird. 
In  truth  that  garden  was  a  lovely  spot, 
Its  quiet  beauty  won  upon  the  heart. 
The  clear,  blue  waters  of  the  Kennebec 
Lay  sparkling  in  the  sunlight  just  beyond, 
While  on  its  bosom  swelled  the  snowy  sail, 
Watching,  so  lazily,  its  imaged  form 
Reflected  from  the  calm  and  clear  expanse. 

I  laid  me  down  upon  the  green  fresh  bank 
Beside  the  rose-bush,  'neath  the  willow  shade, 
And  even  while  I  gazed  mine  eyelids  closed, 
Yet  did  the  scene  not  vanish  from  my  soul ; — 
The  sky,  the  bank,  the  stream,  the  flowers 
Were  all  before  my  spiritual  gaze, 
Though  o'er  me  stole  a  slumber  so  serene, 
That  thus,  I  thought,  the  angels  sink  to  rest, 
The  while  all  conscious  that  they  sleep  and  dream. 

And  now,  far  oft,  upon  the  horizon's  verge, 
I  mark'd  a  snowy  cloud  in  my  sweet  sleeps- 
It  seem'd  a  pearly  shape  in  the  clear  light; 
But  as  I  gaz'd,  it  gently  floated  on, 
And  near  and  nearer  came,  upon  the  sigh   . 
Of  the  soft  southern  breeze,  till  over  me, 
Far  up  in  the  clear  blue  sky,  it  hung  in  light; — 
A  cloudlet,  swaying  in  the  upper  depth. 

We  do  not  reason  closely  in  our  dreams  ; 

But  e'en  in  sleep,  I  wonder'd  why  my  eyes 

Still  watch'd  and  gazed  upon  that  snowy  cloud; 

And  to  myself  I  said,  't  is  but  a  mass 

Of  vapor,  and  'twill  quickly  pass  away. 

The  thought  had  not  departed,  e'en  it  seem'd 

Descending  gently  to  my  wond'ring  sight; 

And  as  it  nearer  came,  I  marked  its  form; 

'T  was  like  a  fairy  car,  or  like  the  one 

Drawn  by  the  Sun's  steeds  from  the  rosy  East; — 

And  now  it  hovered  o'er  me,  an/i  I  saw 


140  A    DREAM. 

How,  like  the  downy  cov'ring  of  the  swan, 

Its  substance  swayed  and  trembled  in  the  breeze. 

Then  came  a  moment  of  forgetfulness ; 

I  ceased  to  dream,  and  slept  a  deeper  sleep, 

And  when  my  dreamy  consciousness  returned, 

I  was  within  the  fairy  car !     On«  thrill 

Of  joy,  of  sweet,  unutterable  delight 

Fill'd  all  my  frame.     Upon  its  pearly  sides, 

Which  changed  and  flickered  with  all  rainbow  hues, 

I  gazed  with  wond'ring,  still  increasing  joy  ; 

The  while,  methought,  I  felt  myself  upborne, 

With  motion  calm  and  steady,  through  the  air; 

And  then  I  mark'd  four  strings  of  purest  pearls 

Ascending  far  into  the  clear  blue  sky, 

By  which  my  beauteous  car  was  thus  upraised. 

And  now  sweet  odors  floated  on  the  air, 

Which  seem'd  so  fine  and  pure,  that  at  each  breath 

I  drank  exhilarating  life  and  joy. 

Still  up  I  went,  and  with  th'  ascent,  the  strings 

Of  pearls  grew  shorter,  and  into  my  ear 

Came  music,  low  and  sweet,  as  'twere  the  play 

Of  murm'ring  waves  upon  the  sunny  shore  ; 

Or  the  soft  sighings,  which  the  summer  breeze 

Breathes  to  the  wind-harp's  ever-listening  ear. 

And  now,  out-beaming  from  the  radiant  clouds 

T'wards  which  I  rose,  glanced  forms  of  heav'nly  mould. 

And  then  four  angel  faces  gazed  in  mine, 

Oh,  who  shall  tell  with  what  deep  looks  of  love  ! 

And  in  their  hands  they  held  the  strings  of  pearl, 

And  sweet  low  tones  came  from  their  lips  of  light, 

So  sweet,  I  held  my  breath  to  catch  the  sound ; — 

I  felt  they  gave  me  welcome  to  the  skies ; 

But,  ah !  their  angel  words,  I  heard  them  not 

For  with  my  eager  listening  I  awoke— 

I  woke  with  quick'ned  breath  :  the  bank,  the  stream, 

The  b;rds,  the  flowers  were  there,  and  overhead 

The  clear  blue  sky,  and  the  white  floating  clouds; 

And  for  awhile,  a  heavenly  presence  seem'd  around, 

And  faces  from  the  sky  still  beamed  in  mine. 

Is  there  about  us  kept  an  angel  watch, 

Which,  though  unseen  by  our  gross-waking  sense 

Sometimes  appeareth  to  the  spirit's  gaze  ? 

Breathe  they  into  our  hearts  pure  thoughts,  high  hopes, 

Which  bear  us  upward  from  this  world  of  sin 

To  their  own  atmosphere  of  radiant  light? 

Mayhap,  'tis  but  this  earthly  breath  we  draw 

Which  hides  their  angel  faces  from  our  view. 


THE    ANGEL    BRIDE.  141 

Oh,  come  around  me,  unseen  shining  ones  ! 

Let  me  but  feel  your  holy  presence  near 

In  the  pure  thoughts  ye  bring,  of  that  bright  world. 

Give  me  again  a  vision  of  your  home, 

Let  me  again  mount  upward  from  the  earth, 

Let  me  again  pierce  through  the  unpierced  space 

And  gaze  once  more  into  those  angel  eyes. 

Come  to  me  while  I  wake ;  let  your  sweet  strains 

Drown  all  the  harsh  discordant  sounds  of  earth. 

And  when  that  dread  mysterious  summons  bids 

The  soul  put  on  its  immortality, 

Then  come,  celestial  heralds  !  bear  me  up 

In  cars  of  triumph  to  your  world  of  light. 

When  this  gross  breath  of  earth  shall  cease  its  play, 

Then  let  your  words  of  welcome  fill  my  ear. 

M.  O.  S. 


From  the  Georgia  "  Orion." 

THE  ANGEL  BRIDE. 

FROM  THE  MSS.  OF  A  LATE 


IT  was  evening  —  the  evening  of  a  summer  Sabbath.  The 
sweet  hush  of  Nature,  unbroken  by  a  single  sound  of  busy 
life,  harmonized  but  too  painfully  with  the  oppressive  stillness 
which  pervaded  the  chamber  whither  my  footsteps  were  bent. 
It  was  on  the  ground  floor  of  a  pretty  residence  in  the  out- 
skirts of  the  village  of  C  -  .  Its  open  windows  overlooked 
a  garden  where  Taste  and  Beauty  reigned  supreme  —  a  second 
Eden,  which  extended  with  a  scarce  perceptible  decimation, 
to  the  very  margin  of  a  stream,  where  it  was  bounded  by  a 
white  picket,  and  a  hedge  of  low-trimmed  shrubbery,  over 
which  the  eye  caught  the  flashing  waters  as  they  swept  on, 
glowing  in  the  crimson  radiance  of  the  sunset. 

I  entered  the  house,  and  stepping  lightly  along  a  carpeted 
passage,  tapped  softly  at  the  door  of  the  chamber  of  sick- 
ness —  ay,  of  death. 


142  THE    ANGKL    BRIDE. 

"  Welcome,  Doctor,"  said  the  silvery  voice  of  a  lady,  who 
sat  by  a  low  couch,  partially  hung  with  white  drapery.  Wel- 
come ! — the  dear  sufferer  is  now  in  a  quiet  slumber — but 
must  presently  awake,  and  one  of  her  first  enquiries  will  be 
for  you." 

"  How  is  your  sweet  Lucy  now  ?" 

"  She  has  been  quiet  and  apparently  comfortable  all  day. 
It  is  her  Sabbath,  doctor,  as  well  as  the  worshippers'  who  go 
up  to  the  earthly  courts  of  our  loved  Zion.  "  Oh  !"  she  add- 
ed, while  the  sunlight  of  joy  irradiated  her  features,  pale 
with  long  vigils  at  the  beside  of  her  sweet  Lucy — "  Oh  ! 
how  full  of  consolation  is  this  scene  of  mortal  suffering,  of 
earthly  bitterness,  of  expiring  hope  !" 

"  Yes,  my  dear  friend,"  I  replied,  "  your  cup  of  affliction 
is  indeed  sweetened  from  on  high.  I  have  seen  Death  tor 
day,  clad  in  his  robes  of  terror.  He  took  from  my  hopeless 
care  a  victim  all  unprepared,  even  after  long  and  fearful 
warning ;  and  the  recollection  of  the  sad  struggle,  the  terri- 
ble anguish  of  the  vanquished  ;  the  fierce  triumph  of  the 
Conqueror,  and  the  piercing  wail  of  exhausted  Nature,  haunt 
my  memory  still ;  and  even  in  this  earthly  paradise  I  cannot 
forget  them." 

"  And  is  poor  Edwards  gone  at  last  to  his  dread  account  ? 
Oh  !  how  fearful,"  and  the  gentle  lady  covered  her  face  and 
wept. 

Sometime  elapsed.  I  lingered'  at  the  couch  of  Lucy  till 
she  should  awake,  and  taking  from  the  stand  a  small  though 
elegant  copy  of  the  bible,  I  opened  its  silver  clasp,  and  my 
eye  caught  the  simple  inscription  on  its  fly-leaf:  "  To  my  Lu- 
cy— a  parting  gift  from  Clarence."  I  had  designed  to  read 
a  portion  of  the  word,  but  thought  was  for  the  time  engrossed. 
I  had  known  Lucy  May  from  her  infancy,  and  she  was 
scarcely  less  dejfr  to  me  than  my  own  daughter.  Indeed, 
they  had  grown  up  like  twin  blossoms,  and  were  together 
almost  every  hour  of  the  day.  Seventeen  summers  they  had 
each  numbered — though  Lucy  was  some  months  elder.  No 
brother  nor  sister  had  either  of  them,  and  hence  the  intensity 


THE    ANGEL    BRIDE.  143 

of  mutual  love.  Their  thoughts,  their  affections,  their  desires, 
their  pursuits  were  in  common.  They  called  each  other 
"  sister,"  and  their  intercourse  honored  the  endearing  name. 

And  Clarence — the  giver  of  the  little  volume  in  my  hand — 
who  was  he  ?  Clarence  Hamilton  was  the  son  of  my  best 
earthly  friend,  and  a  nobler  youth — in  all  the  lofty  faculties 
and  endowments  of  the  heart  and  intellect — never  rejoiced 
in  the  vigor  of  life  and  early  manhood.  To  him  had  Lucy 
been  betrothed  for  more  than  a  year,  and  he  was  now  absent 
from  the  village,  though  we  trusted  when  each  sun  rose,  that 
its  setting  would  bring  him  back  in  answer  to  our  cautious 
summons.  Especially  had  hope  and  expectation  grown 
within  our  hearts  on  that  evening,  yet  had  not  a  word  been 
spoken  on  the  subject  by  the  widowed  mother  of  the  lovely 
Lucy.  At  length,  however,  she  raised  her  head,  and  observ- 
ing the  open  volume  in  my  hand — she  said,  in  an  assumed 
tone  of  cheerfulness, 

"  I  trust  Clarence  will  come  this  evening.     It  is  now ." 

"  Clarence !"  said  the  sweet  patient,  opening  her  dark 
eyes,  and  looking  eagerly  around.  Her  eye  rested  only  on 
her  mother  and  myself,  and  with  a  slight  quiver  on  her  lip, 
and  a  sad  smile,  she  said, 

"  He  is  not  come  !" 

"  No  !  my  darling,  he  has  not  yet  come  ;  but  there  is  more 
than  an  hour  to  the  close  of  day,  and  then ." 

"  God  grant  he  may  come,"  said  the  maiden,  and  she  add- 
ed with  energy,  "  if  it  be  His  holy  will.  Oh  ! — Doctor,  my 
kind,  dear  friend,  your  Lucy  is  wearing  away  fast,  is  she 
not  ?"  and  then  observing  the  emotion  which  I  attempted  to 
conceal,  she  said :  "  But  I  am  better  to-day,  am  I  not  ? 
Where  is  Ellen — why  does  she  not  come  !"  Her  mother 
turned  an  inquiring  glance  upon  me  as  I  took  the  thin  white 
hand  of  the  young  girl  in  mine,  and  marked  the  regular  but 
feeble  beatings  of  the  pulse. 

"  Shall  I  send  for  your  daughter,  Doctor  ?"  she  asked. 

1  acquiesced,  and  in  a  few  minutes  Ellen  was  sobbing  vi- 
olently, with  her  face  hidden  on  the  bosom  of  her  "  sister." 


144  THE    ANGEL    BRIDE. 

"Ellen,  my  sweet  sister,"  said  Lucy,  "  your  father  has  told 
me  that  I  must  leave  you" — and  her  voice  faltered — "  my 
own  dear  mother — and — ,"  but  she  did  not  utter  the  name 
of  her  lover,  for  at  that  moment  the  voice  of  a  domestic  was 
distinctly  heard. 

"  He  is  come,  Mr.  Clarence  is  come  !  Now  God  bless  my 
dear  young  lady."  Lucy  uttered  a  scream  of  joy,  and  clasp- 
ing Ellen  around  the  neck,  murmured  "  Father  in  Heaven,  I 
thank  thee,"  and  then  fainted  with  excess  of  happiness. 
Her  swoon  was  brief.  She  recovered  almost  immediately, 
and  her  face  was  radiant  with  happiness. 

Clarence  Hamilton  was  pursuing  his  studies  at  a  distant 

college,  and  the  letter  which  summoned  him  to  C ,  had 

scarcely  intimated  danger  in  the  illness  of  his  betrothed.  It 
had  been  delayed  on  the  way,  and  but  half  the  time  of  its 
journey  had  sufficed  to  bring  the  eager,  anxious  student  to 
the  spot  where  his  heart  had  stored  its  affections,  and  cen- 
tered its  hopes,  next  to  Heaven,  for  Clarence,  was  more  than 
a  noble-hearted,  high-souled  man  ;  he  was  a  disciple  of  Jesus 
Christ,  and  he  was  fitting  himself  to  be  an  Apostle  of  his 
Holy  Religion.  He  had  nearly  completed  his  course  of 
studies,  and  was  then  to  be  united  to  the  beautiful  Lucy  May. 

Three  months  before  the  Sabbath  evening  of  which  we 
write,  Lucy  was  in  health,  and  with  her  companion  Ellen  was 
performing  her  delightful  duties  as  Sabbath-school  teacher. 
Returning  home  she  was  exposed  to  a  sudden  storm  of  rain, 
and  took  cold.  Her  constitution,  naturally  feeble,  was  speed- 
ily affected,  and  consumption,  that  terrible  foe  to  youth  and 
beauty,  seized  upon  her  as  another  victim  for  its  mighty  ho- 
locaust to  death.  At  first  the  type  of  her  disease  was  mild, 
but  within  three  weeks  it  had  assumed  a  fearful  character, 
and  now  her  days  were  evidently  few. 

For  this  dreadful  intelligence  Clarence  was  not  prepared. 
He  feared,  but  he  hoped  more,  and  though  his  heart  was 
heavy,  Hope  kindled  a  bright  smile  on  his  manly  face,  as  he 
entered  the  little  parlor,  where  he  had  spent  so  many  hours 


THE    ANGEL    BRIDE.  145 

of  exquisite  happiness.  He  had  alighted  from  the  stage  just 
before  it  entered  the  village,  and  proceeded  at  once  to  the 
residence  of  Lucy. 

As  Mrs.  May  entered  the  room,  the  smile  on  his  lips  faded, 
For  her  pale  face  told  a  tale  to  his  heart. 

"  Clarence,  my  dear  Clarence,  you  have  the  welcome  of 
fond  hearts." 

"  How  is  Lucy  ?  Why  is  your  face  so  deadly  pale  ?  oh  ! 
say  she  is  not  dangerously  ill,  tell  me" — and  a  thought  of 
keener  misery  entered  his  heart ;  "  she  is — oh  my  God,  my 
Father  in  Heaven,  strengthen  me — she  is  dying — even  now 
dying  !:' 

"  Nay,  nay,  Clarence,"  said  the  mother,  soothingly  ;  "  Lucy 
lives,  and  we  must  hope  for  the  best ;  but  be  not  alarmed  if 
you  see  her  face  even  paler  than  my  own.  Are  you  able  to 
bear  the  sight  now  ?" 

There  was  but  little  consolation  to  his  fears  in  the  reply  of 

"Mrs.  May.     Lucy  was  living;  but  there  was  an  anguish  in 

the  expression — "  hope  for  the  best,"  and  he  said  hurriedly  : 

"  Oil  take  me  to  her  at  once — now,"  and  he  pressed  his 
hand  on  his  throbbing  brow,  and  then  sinking  on  his  knees, 
while  Mrs.  May  knelt  beside  him,  he  entreated  God,  in  a 
voice  choked  with  emotion,  for  strength  to  bear  this  trial,  to 
kiss  the  rod  of  chastisement,  to  receive  the  bitter  with  the 
sweet ;  and  prayed  that  the  cup  might  pass  from  him,  even 
as  did  his  Master  in  the  days  of  his  incarnation  and  anguish. 
He  arose,  and  with  a  calmer  voice,  said : 

"  I  can  see  her  now." 

At  this  moment  I  joined  them  with  Lucy's  earnest  request 
that  Clarence  should  come  to  her  at  once.  We  entered  the 
chamber  just  as  Ellen  had  partially  opened  a  blind,  and  the 
last  rays  of  sunlight  streamed  faintly  through  into  the  room, 
and  fell  for  a  moment  on  the  white  cheek  of  Lucy,  rendering 
its  hue  still  more  snowy.  Alas !  for  Clarence.  As  his  ear- 
nest eyes  met  those  of  his  betrothed — her  whom  he  had  left 
in  the  very  flush  and  perfection  of  youthful  loveliness — now, 
how  changed !  His  heart  sank  within  him,  and  with  a  wild 
VOL.  n.  10 


146       «  THE    ANGEL    BRIDE. 

sob  of  anguish  he  clasped  her  pale,  thin  fingers,  and  kissed 
her  colorless  lips,  kneeling  the  while  at  the  side  of  her  couch. 

"  Clarence,  my  own  Clarence,"  said  the  sweet  girl,  with  an 
effort  to  rise,  which  she  did,  supported  by  his  arm.  He 
spoke  not — he  could  not — dared  not  speak  ! 

"  Clarence,  cheer  up,  my  beloved  ;"  but  her  fortitude  failed, 
and  all  she  could  do  was  to  bury  her  face  in  her  lover's  bo- 
som, and  weep.  We  did  not  attempt  to  check  their  grief; 
nay,  we  wept  with  them,  and  sorrow  for  awhile  had  its  luxury 
of  tears  unrestrained. 

Clarence  at  length  broke  the  silence. 

"Lucy,  my  own  loved  Lucy  !  God  forgive  me  for  my  self- 
ish grief;"  and  he  added,  fervently,  lifting  his  tearful  eyes  to 
Heaven — "  Father,  give  us  grace  to  bear  this  trial  aright," 
and  turning  to, me,  added,  "  Pray  for  us,  Doctor — oh  !  pray 
that  we  may  have  strength  to  meet  this  hour  like  Christians." 

When  the  voice  of  prayer  ceased,  all  feelings  were  calmed, 
but  I  deemed  it  advisable  to  leave  the  dear  patient  to  brief 
repose ;  and  Ellen  alone  remaining,  we  retired  to  the  parlor, 
where  Clarence  learned  from  us  more  of  her  illness  and  of 
her  true  condition,  for  I  dared  not  delude  him  with  false 
hopes. 

"  Doctor,"  said  he,  with  visible  anguish,  "  is  there  no 
hope  ?" 

"  Not  of  recovery,  I  fear,  though  she  may  linger  some 
time  with  us,  and  be  better  than  she  is  to-day." 

"Then  God's  will  be  done,"  said  the  young  man,  while  a 
holy  confidence  lightened  up  his  face,  now  scarcely  less  pale 
than  that  of  his  betrothed  Lucy. 

Day  after  day  the  dear  girl  lingered,  and  many  sweet  hours 
of  converse  did  Clarence  and  Lucy  pass  together  ;  once  even 
she  was  permitted  to  spend  a  few  moments  in  the  portico  of 
the  house,  and  as  Clarence  supported  her,  and  saw  a  tint  of 
health  overspread  her  cheek,  hope  grew  strong  in  his  heart. 
But  Alice  doubted  not  that  she  should  die  speedily,  and  hap- 
pily this  conviction  had  reached  her  heart  ere  Clarence  came, 
so  that  the  agony  of  her  grief  in  prospect  of  separation  from 


THE    ANGEL   BRIDE.  147 

him,  had  yielded  to  the  blissful  anticipation  of  heaven,  that 
glorious  clime  where  she  should,  ere  long,  meet  those  from 
whom  it  was  "more  than  death  to  part." 

"  Dearest  Lucy,"  said  Clarence,  as  they  stood  gazing  on 
the  summer  flowers,  "  you  are  better,  love.  May  not  our 
heavenly  Father  yet  spare  you  to  me — to  your  mother — to 
cousin  Ellen — to  happiness  ?" 

"Ah,  Clarence,  do  not  speak  of  this.  It  will  only  end  in 
deeper  bitterness.  I  must  go — and,  Clarence,  you  must  not 
mourn  when  I  exchange  even  this  bright  world  for  the  Para- 
dise of  immortality." 

Clarence  could  not  answer.  He  pressed  her  hand  and 
drew  her  closer  to  his  throbbing  heart,  and  she  resumed, 
pointing  to  a  bright  cluster  of  amaranth — "  See  there,  Clar- 
ence, is  the  emblem  of  the  life  and  the  joys  to  which  I  am 
hastening."  *  *  *  Three  weeks  had  passed.  It  was 
again  the  evening  of  the  Sabbath.  I  stood  by  the  couch  of 
Lucy  May.  Her  mother  and  Ellen  sat  on  either  side,  and 
Clarence  Hamilton  supported  on  a  pillow  in  his  arms  the 
head  of  the  fair  girl.  Disease  had  taken  the  citadel,  and  we 
awaited  its  surrender  to  Death. 

The  man  of  God,  her  pastor  from  childhood,  now  entered 
the  room,  and  Lucy  greeted  him  affectionately,  and  when  he 
said,  "  Is  it  well  with  thee,  my  daughter — is  it  well  with  thy 
soul  ?"  she  answered  in  a  clear  and  sweetly  confiding  tone  of 
voice — 

"  It  is  well !     Blessed  Redeemer,  thou  art  my  only  trust." 

Clarence  now  bent  his  head  close  to  the  head  of  Lucy, 
and  whispered  in  her  ear,  but  so  distinctly  that  we  all  heard : 

"  Lucy,  since  you  may  not  be  mine  in  life,  oh  !  dearest,  be 
mine  in  death  ;  let  me  follow  you  to  the  grave  as  my  wedded 
wife,  and  I  shall  have  the  blissful  consolation  of  anticipating 
a  reunion  in  heaven." 

The  eye  of  the  dying  girl  lighted  up  with  a  quick  and  sud- 
den joy,  as  she  smilingly  answered, 

"  It  is  well,  Clarence — I  would  fain  bear  thy  name  before 
I  die !"  We  were  startled  at  this  strange  request  and  an- 


148  THE    ANGEL    BRIDE. 

swer,  but  no  heart  or  lip  ventured  to  oppose  it.     Lucy  theri 
said  : 

"  Mother,  dear  mother,  deny  me  not  my  last  request ;  will 
you  and  Ellen  dress  me  in  my  bridal  robe  ?  I  will  wear  it  to 
my  tomb."  Clarence  also  besought  Mrs.  May  to  grant  this 
wish,  and  let  him  win  a  bride  and  mother  ;  and  she  answered, 

"  As  you  and  Lucy  will,  but  it  will  be" — and  her  heart 
spoke — "  it  will  be  a  mournful  bridal." 

Lucy  now  motioned  us  from  the  room,  and  we  retired. 
Clarence  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"  You  will  not  blame  me  that  I  seek,  even  in  the  arms  of 
.death,  to  make  her  my  wife.  Oh,  how  much  of  bliss  has 
been  crowded  into  this  one  anticipation  !  and  though  it  will 
be  a  '  sad  bridal,'  it  will  sweeten  the  cup  of  bitterness  which 
is  now  pressed  to  my  lips." 

In  a  few  minutes  we  re-entered  that  hallowed  chamber. 
The  light  of  day  had  faded,  and  a  single  lamp  was  burning 
on  the  stand.  Lucy  was  arrayed  in  a  muslin  robe,  which 
scarce  unrivalled  her  cheek  in  whiteness,  save  where  the  deep 
hectic,  now  heightened  by  excitement,  flushed  it.  Clarence 
seated  himself  by  her,  and  she  was  raised  to  a  sitting  posture, 
and  supported  in  his  arms.  She  placed  her  wasted  hand  in 
his,  and  said,  half  playfully,  half  sadly,  "  'T  is  a  worthless  of- 
fering, Clarence." 

He  pressed  it  to  his  fevered  lips,  his  face  pale  and  flushed 
by  turns.  The  minister  arose  and  stood  before  them,  and  in 
few  words  and  simple,  united  those  two  lovely  beings  in  a  tie 
which  all  felt  must  be  broken  ere  another  sun  should  rise. 
Yet  was  that  tie  registered  and  acknowledged  in  heaven. 

As  the  holy  man  pronounced  them  "  one  flesh,"  and  lifted 
up  his  hand  and  his  voice  in  benediction,  Lucy  put  her  feeble 
arms  around  Clarence,  and  in  a  low  voice  murmured — 
"My  husband." 

"  My  wife  !"  responded  Clarence,  and  their  lips  met  jn  a 
long  and  sweet  embrace. 

We  gave  them  congratulations  through  quick  tears,  ex- 
changed the  sweet  kiss  of  holy  love  and  friendship,  and  left 


LETTERS  FROM  EUROPE.  149 

the  wedded  pair  to  a  brief  realization  of  bliss,  of  which  we 
cannot  tell  the  reader  aught. 

That  night  before  the  last  hour,  the  angel  Azriel  came  as  a 
messenger  of  peace  to  that  bridal  chamber,  and  though  new 
fountains  of  earthly  bliss  had  been  opened  in  the  heart  of 
Lucy  Hamilton,  she  repined  not  at  the  summons,  but  while 
heavenly  joy  sat  on  her  features,  and  her  lips  murmured — 
peace — farewell,  husband — mother — sister — all — her  pure 
spirit  took  its  flight,  and  her  lifeless  body  lay  in  the  ardent 
embrace  of  the  woe-stricken,  but  humble  Clarence,  who  still 
lingers  in  this  weary  world,  doing  his  Master's  work,  and 
waiting  his  Master's  will  to  be  reunited  to  his  angel  bride  in 
Heaven. 


For  the  Magnolia. 

LETTERS  FROM  EUROPE-NO.  V. 

Institutions — British  and  Foreign  Bible  Society— The  Royal  Society — 
Neiotoris  P.inapia — The.  Mall — Session  Room — British  Museum — 
Thomas  Hurtwell  Horn — Curiosities— Elgin  Marbles, 

MY  DEAR  M., — WE  have  had  a  beautiful  day,  and  spent  it 
entirely  in  visiting  the  religious  learned  institutions  that  abound 
here.  You  are  familiar  with  their  names  ;  a  few  references  to 
them  will  perhaps  be  interesting  to  you,  but  I  can  give  you 
only  references — a  letter  will  not  suffice  for  minute  descrip- 
tions of  places  of  such  rare  interest. 

The  first  that  we  called  at  was  the  celebrated  British  and 
Foreign  Bible  Society.  We  were  very  politely  conducted  by 
one  of  its  officers  through  its  numerous  apartments,  most  of 
which  were  filled  with  stock — the  word  of  life  in  various  lan- 
guages. We  passed  through  room  after  room,  each  crowded 
with  printed  sheets  of  the  Scriptures.  Here  we  found  the 


150  LETTERS  FROM  EUROPE. 

English  language,  there  the  Turkish  ;  in  one  room  the  Arabic, 
in  another  the  Syriac,  &c.,  &c.  The  vast  building  is  almost 
exclusively  occupied  with  these  printed  sheets.  The  press- 
work  is  not  done  by  the  society,  but  at  Oxford,  or  by  some 
other  of  "  the  Queen's  printers,"  to  whom  the  printing  of 
the  Scriptures  is  confined,  by  act  of  Parliament.  This  re- 
striction is  designed  to  preserve  the  sacred  text  from  typo- 
graphical perversion  ;  but  I  know  not  that  our  gloated  liberty 
of  the  press  in  America  has  been  attended  with  any  serious 
injury  to  the  Scriptures. 

The  assembly  room  of  the  managers  is  an  elegant  apart- 
ment— quite  a  little  chapel ;  and  the  library  is  especially  in- 
teresting, being  a  vast  polyglot  of  the  bible.  Copies  of  the 
divine  word,  in  almost  every  language,  may  be  seen  therer 
besides  rare  specimens  of  the  earliest  editions  in  Europe,  and 
several  most  valuable  manuscripts.  It  is  the  largest  institu- 
tion of  Christian  benevolence  in  the  world,  and  is  supposed 
by  Dr.  Adarh  Clarke,  to  be  the  pocalyptic  angel  "  flying 
through  the  midst  of  heaven,  having  the  everlasting  gospel.'' 
No  resort  in  this  "  world-metropolis"  can  present  a  scene  of 
greater  sublimity  to  the  Christian,  than  this  large  pile  of  build- 
ings with  their  vast  apartments  crowded  with  the  records  of 
eternal  truth,  in  so  many  languages. 

We  passed  from  the  halls  of  the  Bible  Society,  to  those  of 
the  "  Royal  Society,"  so  noted  in  the  annals  of  English  sci- 
ence. The  transition  seemed  natural,  for  the  one  sustains  in 
the  learned  world,  about  the  same  relation  that  the  other  does 
in  the  religious.  We  were  introduced  to  the  assistant  Secre- 
tary, who  accompanied  us  through  the  rooms,  explaining 
every  thing  of  interest,  and  showing  every  possible  proof  oi 
courtesy.  We  examined  with  much  curiosity,  its  library  and 
apparatus.  Among  the  latter  is  Sir  Isaac  Newton's  reflecting 
telescope  ;  it  was  made  by  his  own  hands,  and  was  the  first 
ever  made.  It  is  small,  and  a  little  time-worn,  but  we  gazed 
at  it  with  intense  interest.  We  found  in  the  library,  how- 
ever, an  object  of  still  greater  attraction  ;  this  was  the  origi- 
nal manuscript  of  Newton's  Principia — a  work  that  has 


LETTERS  FROM  EUROPE.  151 

unveiled  the  face  of  Nature  to  mankind.  I  handled  it  with 
reverence,  as  next  sacred  to  the  word  of  God,  for  it  was  a 
revelation  of  Nature,  as  the  holy  Scriptures  are  of  religion. 
It  is  of  large  folio  size,  and  the  copy  from  which  the  printer 
set  up  the  type  of  the  first  edition.  It  was  presented  by 
Newton  to  the  Society.  The  hand  is  plain,  and  there  are 
but  comparatively  few  erasures  or  other  corrections.  Another 
relic  sacred  in  the  eyes  of  the  scientific  visitor,  is  the  verita- 
ble quadrant  used  by  Flamstead,  the  first  observer  at  Green- 
wich. Here  is  also  the  air  pump  of  Boyle,  the  philosopher, 
the  one  by  which  he  performed  his  experiments. 

The  library  is  an  invaluable  collection  of  scientific  books ; 
among  them  are  many  Oriental  manuscripts,  collected  by  Sir 
William  Jones. 

"  There  is  but  a  step  from  the  sublime  to  the  ridiculous," 
said  Napoleon.  The  English  still  cling  to  many  of  the  an- 
tiquated forms  of  their  fathers.  We  were,  for  instance,  the 
other  day  in  the  lecture-room  of  the  Royal  College  of  Sur- 
geons when  that  learned  body  entered  in  procession,  their 
president  and  lecturer  arrayed  in  solemn  black  silk  gowns, 
and  preceded  by  a  fantastically  apparelled  herald  bearing  an 
immense  mace — a  gilded  shaft  headed  by  a  crown — and  all 
this  imposing  array  was  to  introduce  a  lecturer  on  the  fangs 
of  reptiles.  The  grave  sages  of  the  Royal  Society  must  also 
have  their  symbolic  bauble — it  is  a  heavy  gilt  staff,  sur- 
mounted by  a  large  crown.  The  wrought  work  is  very  fine 
for  its  age,  but  the  interest  of  the  affair  is,  that  it  is  the  ver- 
itable mace  of  the  Parliament  to  which  Cromwell  said,  "  Take 
away  that  bauble." 

The  room  for  the  sessions  of  the  society  is  decorated  with 
portraits  of  most  of  the  eminent  philosophers  of  Great  Britain. 
They  compose  quite  a  portrait  gallery.  Among  them  are 
those  of  Newton,  Flamstead,  Walley,  Lock,  Boyle,  Bacon, 
Sir  H.  Davy,  Sir  Joseph  Banks,  Herschell,  &c.  Our  own 
countryman,  Franklin,  also  hangs  most  worthily  among  them. 
In  this  room  is  kept  the  statute  book  of  the  society  containing 
the  autographic  subscriptions  of  its  members  from  the  begin- 


152  '  LETTERS  FROM  EUROPE. 

ning.  Each  successive  sovereign  commences  a  new  list,  and 
a  page  is  highly  illuminated  for  the  royal  signature.  The  first 
is  that  of  Charles  the  II.,  the  founder  of  the  institution.  It 
is  not  a  little  interesting  to  examine  and  compare  these  ven- 
erable autographs.  The  Royal  Society's  rooms  are  in  the 
Summerset  palace,  where  also  are  the  apartments  and  fine 
collections  of  the  Geological  Society.  The  Astronomical 
Society  also  occupies  a  part  of  the  same  edifice.  We  exam- 
ined the  former;  its  cabinet  is  invaluable,  though  not  large. 

From  Summerset  House  we  drove  to  the  British  Museum. 
Here  we  met  Rev.  Mr.  Horn,  the  well-known  author  of  the 
"  Introduction  to  the  study  of  the  Bible."  We  had  enjoyed 
a  previous  acquaintance  with  him,  and  therefore  were  made 
welcome  to  his  courteous  attentions.  He  is  engaged  by  the 
Government  in  preparing  a  catalogue  of  the  Library.  We 
were  conducted  by  him  through  its  most  interesting  apart- 
ments. Here  we  found  the  celebrated  Harleian  and  Cotton- 
ian  Libraries,  reference  to  which  you  so  often  meet  in  critical 
works.  The  former  contains  no  less  than  seven  thousand 
manuscripts.  The  "King's  Library,"  originally  belonging  to 
George  III.,  but  presented  to  the  nation  by  George  IV..  forms 
a  splendid  portion  of  the  collection.  Mr.  Horn  showed  us  a 
number  of  curious  old  works.  He  is  an  inveterate  book- 
worm, and  revelled  among  these  innumerable  and  musty  vol- 
umes, especially  those  relating  to  sacred  literature.  Among 
these  he  showed  us  several  antique  specimens  of  the  Scrip- 
tures. A  copy  of  Luther's  first  edition  of  the  Bible,  con- 
taining his  own  and  Melancthon's  autographs,  was  showed  us. 
It  was  the  copy  used  by  Luther  himself.  We  saw,  also,  a 
copy  of  the  first  edition  of  Coverdale's  translation. 

The  collection  of  curiosities  and  scientific  specimens  is  in- 
finite. The  Elgin  marbles  form  a  great  attraction.  You 
know  their  history.  Lord  Elgin,  you  recollect,  had  them  ta- 
ken down  from  the  Parthenon  at  Athens,  and  sold  them  to 
the  British  Government  for  one  hundred  and  fifty  thousand 
dollars.  Byron  resents  this  sacrilegious  spoliation,  and  makes 
Minerva  curse  the  noble  robber  most  heartily. 


LETTERS  FROM  EUROPE.  153 

"  First  on  the  head  of  him  who  did  the  deed 
My  curse  shall  light,  on  him  and  all  his  seed 
Without  one  spark  of  intellectual  fire, 
Be  all  the  sons  as  senseless  as  the  sire  : 
If  one  with  wit  the  parent  brood  disgrace, 
Believe  him  bastard  of  a  brighter  race, 
Still  with  his  hireling  artists  let  him  prate 
And  folly's  praise  repay  for  wisdom's  hate, 
Long  of  their  patron's  gusto  let  them  tell, 
Whose  noblest  votive  gusto  is  to — sell ! 
To  sell  and  make — nmy  shame  record  the  day  ! 
The  state  receives  of  his  pilfered  prey  !" 

After  all,  I  do  not  know  but  that  the  noble  pilferer  has 
some  justification  ;  these  splendid  remains  are  certainly  safer, 
more  useful,  more  appreciated  and  honored  in  the  national 
temple  of  British  science,  than  among  the  ruins  of  the  acrop- 
olis, exposed  to  the  elements,  to  spoliation  from  every  senti- 
mental vagrant  from  abroad,  and  a  barbarous  people  at  home. 
Many  of  them  are  seriously  marred  by  time,  but  the  frag- 
ments are  nevertheless,  admirable  for  their  exquisite  work- 
manship, exhibiting  an  artistic  perfection  scarcely  surpassed 
by  the  Apollo  Belvidere,  or  the  Laocoon.  The  Egyptian 
collections  here,  are  also  most  interesting.  Among  them  is 
the  celebrated  " Rosetta  Stone"  which  revealed  to  the  world 
the  significance  of  the  Egyptian  hieroglyphics,  and  opened 
all  their  vast  monumental  records  to  our  research.  It  is  in- 
scribed with  hieroglyphics,  but  among  these  were  found 
words  in  Greek  and  Latin,  recording  the  same  names  with 
the  Egyptian  characters.  The  former  were  substituted  for 
the  latter,  and  thus  gave  the  alphabetical  meaning  of  the 
hieroglyphics. 

The  natural  history  apartment  is  magnificent.  The  min- 
eralogical  collection  is  especially  fine.  We  saw  here,  also, 
one  of  the  original  copies  of  the  Magna  Charta ;  it  is  quite 
illegible,  having  been  injured  by  fire  in  one  of  the  palaces. 

When  shall  we  haye  such  monuments  to  science  in  our 
own  beloved  country  ?  But  let  us  not  despair.  Slow  as  our 
country  is  alleged  to  be  in  its  patronage  of  science  and  the 
arts,  it  is  a  fact  that  it  has  done  more  for  them  than  any  other 


154  LETTERS  FROM  EUROPE. 

nation  in  history,  at  an  equally  early  period  of  its  career. 
The  croakers  among  ourselves  give  importance  to  trans-Atlan- 
tic slanders  by  admitting  and  affecting  to  mourn  over  their 
truth.  We  are  but  an  infant  people  yet ;  what  in  all  the 
names  of  the  Muses,  could  be  expected  from  a  community 
but  about  seventy  years  old,  who  have  had  in  that  short  pe- 
riod, to  fight  out  their  oppressors,  organize  their  government, 
subdue  their  boundless  forests,  build  their  roads,  canals  and 
public  edifices,  found  their  churches,  schools  and  colleges, 
and  a  thousand  et  ceteras?  Yet  of  our  public  buildings,  the 
Libraries  already  formed  in  our  principal  cities,  the  scientific 
Collections  at  Washington,  Boston,  Cambridge,  New  York. 
New  Haven  and  Philadelphia  ;  the  men  of  genius  who  have 
arisen  among  us — West,  Stuart,  Allston,  Trumbull,  Peele, 
Healey,  in  painting ;  Powers,  Clavenger,  Crawford,  Hughs, 
Bracket,  in  sculpture ;  Franklin,  Silliman,  Hayes,  Edwards, 
Channing,  Professor  Stuart,  Noah  Webster,  in  philosophy, 
geology  and  philology ;  Irving,  Cooper,  Bryant,  Halleck, 
Longfellow,  Whittier,  Bancroft  and  Prescott,  in  fine  litera- 
ture ;  of  these  our  young  republic  may  speak  with  conscious 
pride,  and  challenge  any  land  under  heaven  to  show  a  paral- 
lel at  so  early  a  date,  and  under  similar  circumstances.  Do 
not  smile  at  the  remark — I  believe  it  is  soberly  tried  ;  and  if 
our  land  did  not  abound  so  much  in  two  classes  of  charac- 
ters, croakers  on  the  one  hand,  and  fustionists  on  the  other, 
we  should  he  disposed  more  to  respect  ourselves  for  the  truly 
great  men  who  have  illustrated  our  brief  beginning.  Our 
boast  is  still  larger  in  the  more  practical  arts  ;  a  people  who 
have  given  to  the  world  the  steamboat,  the  cotton  gin,  the 
quadrant,  the  magnetic  telegraph,  and  is  changing  the  face  of 
the  nations  by  them,  has  no  reason  to  cringe  at  foreign  tal- 
ents. But  where  am  I  wandering  to  ?  A  thousand  blessings 
on  my  own  country,  then :  and  let  us  return  to  John  Bull's 
great  museum. 


SKETCHES  OF  WESLEY.  155 


For  the  Magnolia. 

SKETCHES  OF  WESLEY. -NO.  V. 

BY  REV.  D.  WISE. 

The  formation  and  growth  of  Mr.  Wesley's  societies— Mr.  Wesley  begins 
field  preaching —  Visits  Bath —  Fast  crowds  attend  his  meetings —  Oppo- 
sition— Success — Societies  formed— Their  spread — The  result — Mr.  Wes- 
ley's popularity,  after  forty  years'1  public  labor, 

As  before  his  remarkable  experience,  Mr.  Wesley  had  dili- 
gently preached  a  rigid  righteousness,  without  placing  faith 
in  Christ  at  its  root,  so,  he  now  with  equal  diligence,  pro- 
claimed the  doctrine  of  justification  by  faith.  He  did  this  at 
first  to  certain  small  assemblies,  known  by  the  name  of  "  The 
Societies,"  mostly  connected  with  the  Moravians,  and  in  the 
Episcopal  churches  in  the  city  of  London.  His  stay  in  this 
city  was  caused  by  the  trustees  of  the  colony  in  Georgia, 
who  needed  his  opinions  and  information.  While  detained 
in  this  manner  from  his  much-loved  and  desired  college  re- 
treat at  Oxford,  he  was  importuned  to  preach  in  various 
churches.  He  did  so.  Vast  crowds  attended  his  preaching. 
The  unfashionable  doctrine  he  proclaimed  and  the  unwieldly 
masses  of  people  that  flocked  to  listen,  soon  caused  all  the 
churches  to  be  closed  against  him.  A  struggle  ensued  in 
his  mind.  Should  he  be  silent  ?  His  conscience  forbade 
this.  Should  he  preach  out  of  doors  ?  His  ideas  of  order 
and  decency  revolted  at  such  a  bold,  unpopular  step.  The 
contest,  however,  was  short.  Conscience  prevailed.  He 
preached  in  the  open  air  at  Moorfields,  to  thousands  upon 
thousands.  Great  numbers  were  cut  to  the  heart,  and  came 
to  him  weeping  and  inquiring,  with  the  Phillipian  jailer,  what 
shall  I  do  to  be  saved  ? 

The  celebrated  Whitefield  had  previously  began  the  same 
practice,  and  about  this  time  he  wrote  to  Mr.  Wesley  from 
Bristol,  requesting  him  to  visit  that  city,  without  delay.  He 
cheerfully  obeyed  the  summons,  and  the  day  after  Mr.  White- 
field  left  Bristol,  Mr.  Wesley  says,  "  At  four  in  the  P.  M.,  I 
submitted  to  become  more  vile,  and  proclaimed  in  the  high- 


156  SKETCHES  OF  WESLEY. 

ways  the  glad  tidings  of  salvation,  from  a  little  eminence  in 
a  ground  adjoining  to  the  city,  to  about  three  thousand  peo- 
ple." These  labors  he  extended  to  Bath  and  adjacent  towns  ; 
and  shortly  after,  in  company  with  Mr.  Whitefield,  he 
preached  at  Blackheath,  to  twelve  or  fourteen  thousand  peo- 
ple. Similar  congregations  hung  upon  his  lips  at  Kenning- 
ton  Common,  Moorfields,  and  many  other  places.  Speaking 
of  these  unfashionable  but  deeply  affected  audiences,  he  says  : 
"I  cannot  say  I  have  ever  seen  a  more  awful  sight  than 
when  on  Rose  Green,  or  the  top  of  Hannam  Mount;  some 
thousands  of  people  were  calmly  joined  together  in  solemn 
waiting  upon  God.  While 

They  stood,  and  under  open  air  adored 

The  God  who  made  both  air,  earth,  heaven  and  sky. 

And  whether  they  were  listening  to  his  word  with  attention, 
still  as  night,  or  were  lifting  up  their  voice  in  praise,  as  the 
sound  of  many  waters,  many  a  time  have  I  been  constrained 
to  say  in  my  heart,  '  How  dreadful  is  this  place  !  This  also 
is  no  other  than  the  house  of  God.  This  is  the  gate  of 
Heaven  !' " 

Finding  this  new  and,  to  the  fastidious,  unpopular  mode  of 
labor,  to  be  productive  of  great  and  useful  results,  Mr.  Wes- 
ley pursued  it  with  all  the  unconquerable  energy  of  his  char- 
acter. When  opposed,  as  he  was  from  many  high  and  re- 
spectable sources,  he  defended  himself  with  calmness  and 
vigor,  and  kept  on  steadily  at  the  work.  Every  where  souls 
were  converted.  To  keep  them  in  their  new  experience  and 
faith,  he  selected  the  more  devoted  and  strong-minded  of  his 
converts  to  instruct  and  encourage  the  rest.  These  he  called 
leaders,  and  the  persons  assigned  to  their  care,  classes.  A 
combination  of  several  classes  in  one  place,  formed  a  society, 
and  a  further  combination  of  these  societies  constituted  a  cir- 
cuit. Thus  as  God  gave  him  fruit  from  his  labors,  he  wisely 
devised  a  system  for  its  preservation.  And  so  successful  was 
this  simple  but  profound  system,  that  in  twenty  years  after 
the  first  society  was  formed  in  London,  one  of  them  was 
flourishing  in  nearly  every  town  of  importance  in  England. 


SKETCHES  OF  WESLE5T.  157 

On  every  hand  did  the  fruit  of  his  apostolic  zeal  spring  forth. 
Laborers  were  raised  up  in  abundance  to  assist  him,  and  that 
little  class  formed  in  1739,  has  spread  its  branches  over  the 
whole  world.  Go  where  you  will,  you  will  find  the  Metho- 
dist class-member.  Not  only  in  the  territories  of  civilization, 
but  among  the  wild  forest  scenes  of  Africa,  the  jungles  of 
India,  the  distant  mountains  and  prairies  of  America,  among 
the  Indians  of  the  frontier  and  of  the  desert. 

The  limits  to  which  these  sketches  must  of  necessity  be 
confined,  forbid  me  to  make  any  attempt  at  detail  on  the  sub- 
ject of  Mr.  Wesley's  labors.  Let  it  be  sufficient  to  say,  that 
amidst  many  persecutions,  Mr.  Wesley  continued  this  work 
until  his  death ;  and  until  he  had  liced  down  most  of  the  ob- 
loquy which  attended  his  first  departure  from  the  order  of 
the  established  Church.  A  brief  quotation  from  Mr.  Jack- 
son, the  biographer  of  his  brother,  will  exhibit  the  change 
concerning  him  which  was  wrought  in  the  public  mind. 
Speaking  of  him  toward  the  close  of  his  life,  he  says : 

"  At  this  period  the  highest  respect  was  paid  him  by  al- 
most all  classes  of  people.  The  churches  in  London  were 
closed  against  him  in  1738,  and  now  he  had  more  applica- 
tions to  preach  in  those  very  churches,  for  the  benefit  of  pub- 
lic chanties,  than  he  could  possibly  comply  with.  His  visits 
to  many  places  in  the  country,  created  a  sort  of  general  fes- 
tival. The  people  crowded  around  him  as  he  passed  along 
the  streets ;  the  windows  were  filled  with  eager  gazers,  and 
the  children  waited  to  catch  the  good  man's  smile.  When 
he  first  went  into  Cornwall,  accompanied  by  John  Nelson,  he 
plucked  the  blackberries  from  the  hedges  to  allay  the  cravings 
of  hunger,  and  slept  upon  boards,  having  his  saddle-bags  for 
his  pillow,  till  the  bones  cut  through  his  skin.  Now  he  was 
received  in  that  country,  especially,  as  an  angel  of  God. 
Visiting  Falmouth,  August  1789,  he  says:  'The  iast  time  I 
was  here,  above  forty  years  ago,  I  was  taken  prisoner  by  an 
immense  mob  gaping  and  roaring  like  lions.  But  how  is  the 
tide  turned  !  High  and  low  now  lined  the  street,  from  one 
end  to  the  other,  out  of  stark  love,  gaping  and  staring  as  if 
the  King  were  going  by.' ' 


158  EDITOR'S  TVBLE. 


EDITOR'S   TABLE. 

SEASON-HINTS  FOR  WINTER  EVENINGS,  &c. 

11  November's  sky  is  chill  and  drear, 
November's  leaf  is  red  and  sere," 

sang  the  magician  of  the  North,  of  the  month   which  is  coming  upon  us  ; 
and  one  of  our  own  poets  has  beautifully  bewailed  its  approach. 

"The  melancholy  days  are  come,  the  saddest  of  the  year, 
Of  wailing  winds  and  naked  boughs  and  meadows  dry  and  sere." 

The  free  and  intimate  communion  with  Nature  which  the  past  beautiful 
season  has  afforded  us,  is  now  over;  we  must  turn  to  ourselves  or  to  other 
sources  for  that  serene  enjoyment  which  she  has  yielded. 

Mayhap  we  have  listened  to  the  teachings  of  the  ant,  the  bee  and  the 
bird,  and  from  the  profusion  of  summer,  have  stored  our  minds  with  a  sup- 
ply for  the  long  and  to  many,  dreary  season,  which  is  approaching  We 
may  all  meet  it  with  some  sweet  associations  of  the  past,  and  some  bright 
hopes  for  the  future.  We  may  no  longer  obey  the  gentle  mandate  of  the 
poet,  who  bids, 

"If  thou  art  worn  and  hard  beset 
With  sorrows  that  thou  would'st  forget, 
If  thou  wonld'st  read  a  lesson  that  will  keep 
Thy  heart  from  fainting  and  thy  soul  from  sleep, 
Go  to  the  woods  and  hills  ! — no  tears 
Dim  the  sweet  look  that  nature  wears." 

Next  to  the  "  ministering  influences  of  nature,"  comes  the  pure  and  se- 
rene enjoyment  afforded  by  converse  with  good  books ;  and  for  this  "  feast 
of  reason,"  no  time  seems  more  appropriate  or  congenial  than  the  long 
evenings  which  come  with 

"  Winter,  relic  of  the  inverted  year." 

And  though  the  stern  monarch  is  accused  by  the  poet  of  holding  "the  sun 
a  prisoner, 

And  hurrying  him,  impatient  of  his  stay, 
Down  to  the  rosy  west," 

he  gives  his  majesty  credit  for 

"  Kindly  still 

Compensating  his  loss  with  added  hours 
Of  social  converse  and  instructive  ease, 
And  gath'ring,  at  short  notice,  in  one  group 
The  family  dispers'd,  and  fixing  thought 
Not  less  dispers'd  by  daylight  and  its  cares. 
'  I  own  thee  king  of  intimate  delights, 
Fireside  enjoyments,  homeborn  happiness, 
And  all  the  comforts  that  the  lowly  roof 
Of  undisturb'd  retirement,  and  the  hours 
Of  long,  uninterrupted  evening  know." 

There  is  a  certain  idea  of  secure  possession,  in  regard  to  the  winter  eve- 
ning hours  which  we  seldom  feel  of  any  other  time.  This  is  so,  even  with 


EDITOR'S  TABLE.  159 

those  who  are  considered  people  of  leisure  ;  and  unnecessary  interruption 
at  this  time  seems  more  like  intrusion  than  at  any  other.  It  is  true,  that 
since  concerts  and  lectures  have  been  growing  so  fashionable,  (we  would 
not  be  understood  as  speaking  disparagingly  of  them)  this  feeling  is  not  as 
appropriate  as  formerly  ;  but  when  we  do  have  an  evening  "  to  ourselves," 
as  we  call  it,  how  much  may  be  crowded  into  its  quiet  hours. 

The  lecture,  the  meeting,  and  the  sewing-circle,  may  all  be  regularly  at- 
tended, and  yet  the  quiet  evening  hours  need  not  lose  all  their  value  in  the 
opportunities  they  afford  for  real  enjoyment  and  improvement.  We  admit 
that  the  rigid  mental  discipline,  which  can  take  advantage  of  the  stray 
fragments  of  time,  and  from  them  produce  magnificent  results,  is  most  dif- 
ficult to  acquire  and  maintain.  But  that  it  may  be  done,  Elihu  Burritt  is  a 
triumphant  proof,  with  his  knowledge  of  fifty-two  languages,  all  acquired 
in  the  short  intervals  from  daily  toil  at  the  blacksmith's  forge.  If  our  own 
"  weaker  sex"  would  have  examples  worthy  of  imitation,  from  their  own 
ranks,  we  know  of  no  worthier  ones  at  which  to  point,  than  to  the  opera- 
tives of  our  Lowell  factories;  we  cannot  say  to  what  extent  this  is  true  of 
similar  establishments  in  other  places,  because  we  have  not  had  the  same 
means  of  ascertaining,  but  we  speak  what  we  know,  when  we  assert  that  a 
fair  proportion  of  these  females,  though  employed  for  a  larsfer  number  of 
hours  than  our  ordinary  mechanics,  find  time  and  means  for  regular  mental 
cultivation,  by  this  strict  improvement  of  the  evening  hours.  Those  of 
them  who  are  deficient  in  elementary  education,  attend  evening  schools, 
and  acquire  a  sufficiently  competent  knowledge  of  these  brandies,  to  fit 
themselves  to  become  teachers,  when  ill  health  or  other  circumstances 
make  a  change  of  employment  desirable  or  necessary.  Others,  who  in  the 
strict  sense  of  the  term  may  be  called  well  educated,  and  these  are  not  few, 
devote  their  limited  leisure  to  music  ;  and  large  numbers  form  themselves 
into  classes  for  the  purpose  of  taking  lessons  in  the  different  modern  lan- 
guages. French  is  quite  extensively  pursued,  and  many  of  them  are  pro- 
ficients in  German.  We  are  frequently  compelled  to  smile,  when  we  hear 
voung  ladies  of  leisure  complaining  of  the  little  time  they  have  for  reading, 
or  perhaps  proffering  this  stale  excuse  for  their  neglect  of  a  friend  or  a  cor- 
respondent. "  Take  care  of  the  minutes,  and  the  hours  will  take  care  of 
themselves,"  is  the  old  adage,  and  we  scarcely  know  a  more  truthful  or 
more  valuable  maxim.  It  contains  the  secret  of  all  success. 

Much,  however,  depends  upon  the  use  we  make  of  the  minutes  thus 
snatched  from  neglect.  We  have  seen  time  enough  devoted  to  an  elaborate 
piece  of  worsted  work,  to  have  made  its  fair  performer  mistress  of  a  science 
or  a  language.  We  would  not  be  understood  as  joining  in  the  crusade 
against  this  favorite  employment,  for  we  believe  that  none  of  these  matters 
of  taste  and  elegance  are  beneath  a  woman's  notice ;  but  we  would  not 
have  one  cultivated  at  the  expense  of  the  other ;  we  would  have  our  lady- 
friends  as  proficient  in  mending  stockings  as  in  shading  roses,  and  as  fa- 
miliar with  the  important  events  of  their  country's  history,  as  with  the  fea- 
tures of  Hectar  and  Andromache  on  canvass. 

We  have  chosen  rather  a  circumlocutary  route  to  reach  the  point  at 
which  we  aimed  in  the  outset,  but  mayhap  we  shall  be  none  the  less  intelli- 
gible for  our  digressions.  We  wish  in  some  manner  (would  that  we  had 
the  "  thoughts  that  breathe  and  words  that  burn"  on  this  subject)  to  con- 
vince our  fair  readers  how  much  may  be  accomplished  by  well-directed  and 
persevering  efforts.  There  is  much  that  passes  now-a-days  as  a  taste  for 
reading,  which  ill  deserves  the  name.  It  might  be  termed  with  much  more 
propriety,  a  taste  for  idleness.  Many  a  heartless  girl  is  excused  by  her  in- 
dustrious and  hard-working  mother,  from  her  appropriate  duties,  on  account 
of  what  the  too  easily  deceived  parent  fondly  imagines  a  taste  for  reading. 
A  taste  for  any  pursuit  will  lead  us  to  improve  ourselves  in  that  pursuit; 
and  the  individual  who  possesses  a  taste  for  reading,  will  no  more  rest  sat- 
isfied with  the  vapid  and  frivolous  literature  of  the  day,  than  a  taste  for 
painting  will  forever  indulge  itself  in  bright  blue  mountains  and  animals 


160  EDITOR'S  TABLE. 

which  it  is  necessary  to  label  in  order  to  have  them  recognized.  The 
mother,  whose  grown-up  daughter  lounges  about  with  a  paiuby-mamby 
novel  in  her  hand,  in  order  to  escape  more  active  occupations,  had  much 
better,  as  well  for  the  mental  as  the  physical  discipline,  employ  her  in  the 
kitchen  or  the  wash-room  ;  she  will  cultivate  habits  of  industry  and  energy 
which  may  influence  even  her  intellectual  tastes. 

But  there  are  many  who  possess  this  earnest  desire  for  improvement, 
whose  efforts  are  not  as  successful  as  they  might  be,  for  the  want  of  a  svel!- 
digested  plan  to  guide  them.  Reading  may  be  made  much  more  entertain- 
ing, as  well  as  more  profitable,  by  proper  systematizing  it.  XV  e  know  a 
lady  who  pursued  a  course  of  reading,  during  a  year  of  sickness,  whicli 
made  the  period  a  delightful  one  to  remember,  notwithstanding  its  languish- 
ing suffering.  It  was  the  reading  of  the  English  classical  poets,  com- 
mencing with  the  earliest  which  could  be  procured,  such  as  Gomer  and 
Chaucer,  accompanied  by  Johnson's  "  lives  of  the  poets,"  and  that  portion 
of  British  history  relating  to  the  periods  in  which  they  flourished.  It  was 
continued  down  to  the  brilliant  galaxy  of  modern  genius.  Could  a  more 
Epicurean  intellectual  feast  be  imagined  ? 

Another  most  interesting  and  valuable  consecutive  course  of  reading, 
would  be  Irving's  Life  of  Columbus,  with  Prescott's  History  of  Ferdinand 
and  Isabella,  followed  by  the  History  of  the  Conquest  of  Mexico,  Ban- 
croft's History  of  the  United  States,  and  Sparks's  Life  of  Washington. 

We  might  multiply  instances  and  plans,  which  would  only  stop  when  all 
knowledge  should  be  systematized  and  familiarized;  but  we  must  not  in- 
flict too  much  advice  upon  our  readers  at  once.  We  would  refer  those  in- 
terested upon  this  subject,  to  some  most  sensible  and  judicious  remarks  in 
Miss  Beecher's  excellent  work  entitled  Domestic  Economy.  Some  courses 
for  reading  are  there  marked  out,  which  we  should  be  glad  to  quote,  had 
we  the  work  at  hand,  for  those  who  have  not  access  to  the  volume. 

Perhaps  some  of  our  readers  may  object  that  the  books\  necessary  for  this 
manner  of  reading  are  not  always  to  be  procured  These  who  can  have 
access  to  a  good  library  in  any  of  our  large  towns  or  cities,  will  find  this  dif- 
ficulty vanish  upon  inquiry;  we  think,  at  all  events,  in  this,  as  in  com- 
merce, the  supply  will  equal  the  demand,  if  net  now,  in  a  not  far-off  future. 
To  our  friends  in  the  country  who  have  not  this  privilege,  we  know  of  no 
better  plan  to'recommend,  than  the  formation  of  a  Library  Club,  or  some- 
thing of  the  kind,  by  small  individual  subscriptions,  purchase  some  of  the 
books  to  commence  with,  and  by  a  trifling  tax,  keep  a  fund  in  readiness  for 
future  supply.  We  remember  some  spirited  young  girls  who  once  collected 
a  small  but  valuable  number  of  volumes  in  this  manner,  connected  with 
the  private  day-school  they  attended.  Half  a  dozen  young  ladies  in  a  coun- 
try village  near  Boston,  a  few  years  since,  raised  a  sum  of  money  by  a  fair 
for  the  establishment  of  a  library.  We  don't  remember  the  amount  with 
whicli  they  commenced,  but  it  was  less  than  a  hundred  dollars.  This  was 
judiciously  expended,  and  they  have  now  a  collection  of  nearly  two  thou- 
sand valuable  books,  which  does  as  much  honor  to  the  village  itself,  as  to 
the  cultivated  and  energetic  ladies  who  originated  it. 

We  would  not  surfeit  our  readers  in  this  number,  but  we  really  think  the 
subject  will  excuse  some  earnestness  and  prolixity.  If  our  remarks  shall 
have  awakened  one  truly  fervent  desire  for  mental  improvement,  or  sug- 
gested to  one  inquirer  after  truth  a  glimpse  of  sunlight,  we  shall  feel  our- 
selves as  much  entitled  to  lay  claim  to  the  title  of  benefactor  to  the  race, 
as  the  man  who  makes  two  blades  of  grass  grow  where  but  one  grew  be- 
fore. 


To  READERS  AND  CORRESPONDENTS.  We  have  been  obliged  to  prepare 
our  late  numbers  in  great  haste,  for  several  reasons  over  which  we  had  no 
control.  We  cannot  promise  any  great  improvement  till  the  commence- 
ment of  our  next  volume ;  but  with  the  new  year  we  hope  for  new  plans, 
and  new  favors  from  new  and  old  friends. 


THE    DEER    HUNT.  161 


THE   DEER   HUNT. 

As  chief  who  hears  hie  warder  call, 

"  To  arms  !  the  foemen  storm  the  wall" — 

The  antler'd  monarch  of  the  waste 

Sprang  from  his  heathery  couch  in  haste. 

But  ere  bis  fleet  career  he  took, 

The  dew-drops  from  his  flanks  he  shook; 

Like  crested  leader  proud  and  high, 

Tossed  his  beamed  frontlet  to  the  sky ; 

A  moment  gazed  adown  the  dale, 

A  moment  snuffed  the  tainted  gale, 

A  moment  listened  to  the  cry, 

That  thickened  as  the  chase  drew  nigh  ; 

Then  as  the  headmost  foes  appeared 

With  one  brave  bound  the  copse  he  cleared. 

Yelled  on  the  view  the  opening  pack, 

Rock,  glen  and  cavern  paid  them  back ; 

To  many  a  mingled  sound  at  once 

The  awakened  mountain  gave  response, 

An  hundred  dogs  bayed  deep  and  strong, 

Clattered  an  hundred  steeds  along, 

Their  peal  the  merry  horns  rung  out, 

An  hundred  voices  joined  the  shout ; 

Far  from  the  tumult  fled  the  roe, 

Close  in  her  covert  cowered  the  doe, 

The  falcon,  from  her  cairn  on  high, 

Cast  on  the  rout  a  wondering  eye, 

Till  far  beyond  her  piercing  ken 

The  hurricane  had  swept  the  glen. 

Faint,  and  more  faint,  its  failing  din 

Returned  from  cavern,  cliff,  and  linn, 

And  silence  settled,  wide  and  still, 

On  the  lone  wood  and  mighty  hill.  SC«TT. 


VOL.  H<  11 


]62  THE    UNKNOWN    GRAVE. 


THE   UNKNOWN    GRAVE. 

THE  rays  of  the  departing  sun  streamed  through  the  air/ 
and  gilded  the  lofty  summits  of  the  mountains  of  Abarim. 
Far  toward  the  east,  the  deep  waters  of  the  Jordan  were 
rolling  onward  in  their  course ;  while  below,  the  vast  Moab- 
ite  plain  lay  outstretched,  in  all  its  loveliness.  A  brook  ran 
foaming  down  from  the  summit  of  the  mountains,  and,  more 
quietly,  hastened  its  way  through  the  verdant  fields,  a  tribu- 
tary of  the  river  so  renowned  in  sacred  history.  Acacia  trees 
clustered  along  its  margin,  eager  to  drink  of  the  limpid  tide ; 
lilies  confidingly  reclined  on  its  bosom,  and  a  thousand  blos- 
soms bent  gracefully  over  the  shore,  gazing  on  the  forms  mir- 
rored beneath.  A  few  villages  were  scattered  here  and  there 
upon  the  extended  surface,  and  solitary  shepherds  were 
watching  their  flocks  with  diligent  care.  As  the  sunbeams 
lingered  on  the  highest  peaks,  reluctant  to  leave  the  pleasant 
scene,  a  wonderful  procession  entered  the  valley  of  Moab. 

High  in  the  air  above  it,  hung  a  pillar  of  cloud,  fleecy  as 
those  summer  vapors  which  flit  across  the  midday  sky — its 
texture  seemed  piles  of  crystal  light,  woven  by  angelic  fin- 
gers ;  for  a  ruder  than  the  touch  of  heavenly  spirits,  would 
have  stained  its  matchless  purity.  All  fringed  with  glory 
from  tlic  celestial  world,  floated  on  that  chariot  of  the  angel, 
guardian  over  a  wandering  people.  Under  this  strange  guid- 
ance marched  a  host,  like  the  sands  of  the  sea-shore  for  num- 
ber. Wearily  the  procession  wound  along  the  valley — its 
journeyings  had  been  far,  and  now  little  ones  clung  to  the 
mother's  robes,  in  fatigue,  while  many  an  anxious  eye  was 
turned  to  the  guide  of  their  footsteps  ;  for  they  might  not 
rest  till  the  bright  cloud  stopped  in  its  course. 

Four  banners  floated  above  the  powerful  tribes,  who  had 
known  no  city  of  abode  during  forty  toilsome  years.  Fol- 
lowing the  same  crystal  pillar  of  cloud,  their  fathers  came 
forth  from  a  land  of  bondage,  fed  upon  manna  of  heaven, 


THE    UNKNOWN    GRAVE.  163 

and  slaked  their  thirst  beside  streams  gushing  in  the  wilder- 
ness. They  had  increased  and  waxed  strong,  and  now  the 
twelve  tribes  of  the  children  of  Israel,  were  soon  to  enter  the 
land  promised  ages  before,  to  "  the  father  of  the  faithful." 

The  purple  standard  of  the  royal  house  of  Judah,  floated 
above  the  first  division,  and  among  its  ranks  moved  the  tab- 
ernacle of  the  God  of  Israel.  A  wide  space  lay  between  the 
journeying  nation  and  the  holy  house  toward  which  they 
worshipped  ;  they  had  freely  given  their  gold  and  their  silver 
for  its  erection  ;  a  whole  tribe  was  consecrated  to  its  service, 
and  it  was  wrapped  in  the  glory  of  its  Divine  Architect. 
Next  marched  the  camp  of  Reuben,  beneath  the  shadow  of 
a  crimson  banner,  among  whose  folds  sparkled  gems  that 
would  have  graced  a  diadem.  A  part  of  the  priesthood  here 
bore  the  sacred  furniture  of  the  sanctuary,  with  reverent  air, 
as  they  remembered  the  awful  power  of  the  mighty  Jehovah. 

The  sons  of  Joseph  constituted  the  third  division,  and 
treasuring  the  blessing  which  Jacob  had  pronounced  upon 
their  ancestor,  they  had  adopted  the  beautiful  metaphor  for 
their  standard.  A  golden  vine  threw  its  tendrils  in  the  air, 
glittering  above  their  armies.  "  The  hosts  of  the  children  of 
Dan"  came  last  in  the  long  train,  that  had  journeyed  for  forty 
years  among  the  burning  sands  ot  the  deserts  ;  yet  had  not 
the  shoes  of  one  waxed  old,  nor  had  their  garments  failed. 
The  skies  had  dropped  down  their  food,  and  a  cloud  had 
guided  their  way ;  well  might  they  adore  before  the  eternal  "  I 
Am."  Many  an  eye  brightened,  as  the  pillar  of  cloud  tarried 
beneath  the  mountains  of  Abarim.  The  people  knew  they 
were  once  more  on  the  borders  of  the  promised  land  ;  they 
yearned  after  a  home,  with  the  eagerness  of  those  who  have 
experienced  no  rest.  While  the  mellow  tones  of  the  silver 
trumpets  arrested  the  multitude,  and  their  chieftain  uttered 
the  invocation,  "  Return,  O  Lord,  unto  the  many  thousands 
of  Israel,"  they  encamped  for  the  last  time  "  on  this  side  Jor- 
dan." 

The  light  of  day  gradually  melted  away,  and  the  miracu- 
lous cloud,  which  rested  over  the  tabernacle,  assumed  its 


164  THE    UNKNOWN    GRAVE. 

nightly  aspect.  Coruscations  of  light  darted  from  its  re- 
cesses, wound  themselves  in  fantastic  forms  along  the  pillar, 
and  played  about  its  margin,  as  a  crown  of  diamonds  sparkles 
in  the  sunbeams.  It  was  not  like  the  glare  of  torches,  but  a 
soft  light,  like  that  of  the  harvest  moon,  which  streamed  over 
the  city  of  tents.  For  the  last  time  the  children  of  Israel 
pitched  their  tents  in  a  land  that  was  not  their  own  ;  yet 
their  hearts  were  oppressed ;  a  tempest  seemed  impending, 
and  each  bosom  felt  a  heavy  foreboding. 

The  morning  sun  revealed  a  gorgeous  spectacle — the  last 
encampment  of  the  wandering  Israelites.  The  tabeiaacle, 
with  its  veils  of  blue  and  its  ample  courts,  stood  in  their 
midst,  and  yet  alone  ;  the  pillar  of  cloud  hovered  above ,  with 
its  ever-changing  glory ;  far  off  on  every  side,  pitched  the 
twelve  tribes,  under  the  standards  of  their  respective  cumps. 
From  each  tent  floated  the  ensign  of  its  master's  house,  so 
that  a  thousand  varying  colors  waved  over  the  valley  of 
Moab.  The  sound  of  the  silver  trumpets,  echoing  bad  from 
the  heights  of  Abarim,  summoned  the  nation  from  thei>  !ents. 
Hundreds  of  thousands  quickly  gathered  before  the  d  or  of 
the  tabernacle,  and  utter  silence  reigned  through  the  -scm- 
bled  multitude.  At  length  the  chieftain,  who  had  le*  them 
on  their  miraculous  way,  the  man  who  had  stood  b«  ween 
the  rebellious  subjects  and  their  Eternal  King,  who  had  lared 
to  peril  his  own  salvation  that  he  might  win  forgivei  •  -s  for 
his  nation,  came  forth  and  gazed  on  those,  through  wl.«.m  he 
had  sinned,  and  forfeited  his  right  to  enter  the  goodl  land 
of  promise. 

A  hundred  and  twenty  years  had  passed  over  him,  s  ill  he 
stood  in  unabated  strength ;  his  dark  eyes  seemed  to  pene- 
trate the  thoughts  of  every  heart,  and  his  noble  brow  was 
stamped  with  the  impress  of  commune  with  Jehovah.  His 
ancestors,  like  the  ancestors  of  all  that  host,  numbci  iess  as 
the  sands,  had  been  slaves  in  a  distant  land.  In  infancy,  he 
had  been  placed,  by  his  trembling  parents,  on  the  bo. aiding 
waters  of  the  Nile,  and  intrusted  to  the  care  of  Provi  lence, 
in  an  ark  of  bulrushes.  The  king's  daughter  had  adopted 


THE    UNKNOWN    GRAVE.  165 

him  for  her  son,  and  reared  him  amidst  the  luxuries  of  a 
profligate  court ;  he  was  instructed  in  all  the  learning  of  the 
Egyptians,  and  the  coronet  of  that  fertile  land  might  have 
rested  on  his  brow.  "  He  was  mighty  in  word  and  in  deed," 
but,  shuddering  at  the  oppression  of  the  people  of  God,  he 
resigned  the  wealth,  and  ease,  and  renown  of  Pharoah's 
house,  to  deliver  the  enslaved  descendants  of  Jacob.  They 
understood  not  his  mission,  and  he  was  compelled  to  flee  to 
the  land  of  Midian.  There,  the  man  accustomed  to  the 
splendor,  the  confusion  and  the  learning  of  a  palace,  tended 
the  flocks  of  Jethro,  the  priest  of  Midian,  for  forty  years. 
There  commenced  his  series  of  interviews  wjth  an  unseen 
world ;  there  the  Eternal  pledged  his  word^  "  Certainly  I  will 
be  with  thee."  And  when  again  he  appeared  before  his 
people,  with  the  rod  of  God  in  his  hand,  he  caused  the  pow- 
ers of  Egypt  to  tremble.  Wonderful  man  !  To  whom  was 
delegated  authority  over  the  tempests  ;  whose  voice  the  dark- 
ness obeyed ;  and  at  whose  bidding,  the  Angel  of  Death 
smote  down  the  fairest  and  the  most  cherished,  in  every  abode 
throughout  a  mighty  land.  So  he  led  forth  his  countrymen, 
and  the  waters  parted  before  him  ;  he  guided  them  across  the 
barren  deserts  and  encamped  them  at  the  base  of  a  lofty 
mountain,  whose  summits  seemed  to  have  been  rent  into  a 
thousand  fragments  by  the  tempest's  wrath.  In  that  unbro- 
ken solitude,  far  amid  the  sands,  a  liberated  race  awaited  the 
commands  of  their  Divine  protector. 

The  mountain  was  wrapped  in  a  thick  cloud,  lightnings 
flashed  from  its  top  and  chained  along  its  rugged  sides ;  thun- 
ders crashed  among  its  deep  clefts,  rolling  peal  on  peal. 
Above  the  roaring  thunder,  came  the  voice  of  a  trumpet,  long 
and  loud  ;  it  seemed  that  the  blast  had  shaken  the  whole 
world  ;  it  sent  fear  and  trembling  to  the  depths  of  the  hearts 
of  the  isolated  nation.  An  angel  had  descended  and  over- 
shadowed by  that  thick  cloud,  proclaimed  the  coming  of  his 
Lord.  Now  the  mountain  shook  to  its  centre,  its  granite 
bosom  heaved  convulsively,  and  tongues  of  flame  streamed 
from  its  sides ;  huge  columns  of  smoke  rose,  veiling  the  sun 


166  THE    UNKNOWN    GRAVE. 

and  bearing  up  fiery  billows,  as  if  the  devouring  element  had 
broken  loose  from  its  chains.  The  people  retired  in  terror, 
standing  far  off;  but  Moses  reverently  approached,  and  step- 
ping upon  the  quaking  rocks,  was  lost  to  sight  amidst  the  fire 
and  smoke  which  shrouded  Mt.  Sinai.  With  a  sublime  cour- 
age he  unshrinkingly  stood  between  his  brethren  and  their 
almighty  Sovereign.  Forty  days  and  forty  nights  was  Moses 
with  the  Lord,  and  did  neither  eat  bread  or  drink  water. 
When  he  returned  to  the  camp,  his  countenance  had  caught 
a  faint  reflection  of  the  glory  he  had  seen  displayed — the 
people  feared  to  look  upon  him,  till  he  had  veiled  the  bright- 
ness of  his  face  from  their  sight. 

Again  and  again  did  the  people  rebel,  and  as  often  did 
Moses  intercede  that  their  sin  might  be  pardoned — he  even 
periled  his  soul  for  their  sakes.  "  If  not,  blot  me,  I  pray 
thee,  out  of  the  book  which  thou  hast  written."  Thus,  dur- 
ing forty  memorable  years,  had  their  powerful  leader  con- 
ducted the  children  of  Jacob  toward  the  promised  land  of 
rest.  He  had  borne  the  burden  and  heat  of  the  day  ;  he 
longed  to  repose  beneath  the  sweet  shades  of  the  land  flow- 
ing with  milk  and  honey.  But,  once,  the  murmuring  people 
had  excited  his  anger ;  he  had  spoken  unadvisedly  with  his 
lips,  and  God  had  declared,  "  Therefore  ye  shall  not  bring 
this  congregation  into  the  land  which  1  had  given  them." 

Now,  beneath  the  mountains  of  Abarim,  he  stood  before 
his  flock  to  give  his  last  commands.  Sorrowfully,  yet  fondly, 
his  noble  eye  ranged  over  the  countless  congregation — he 
remembered  their  waywardness,  recalled  all  he  had  endured 
for  their  sakes,  thought  of  the  land  forfeited  through  them, 
and  yet,  he  blessed  them  in  the  name  of  the  Lord.  He  re- 
counted to  them  all  the  way  by  which  they  had  been  brought, 
all  the  wonderful  works  displayed  before  them,  all  the  com- 
mands delivered  by  their  Heavenly  Master.  He  warned  them 
by  every  fear  of  peril,  by  every  judgment  which  could  inspire 
fear — he  besought  them  by  every  motive  which  could  influ- 
ence the  heart  of  man — nev^r  to  depart  from  the  precepts  of 
Jehovah.  He  denounced  curses  upon  them,  if  they  forsook 


THE    UNKNOWN    GRAVE.  167 

the  right  way,  and  promised  richest  blessings  if  they  wor- 
shipped the  Lord  above.  He  called  heaven  and  earth  to  re- 
cord against  them,  that  he  had  set  before  them  life  and  death, 
blessing  and  cursing.  This  most  extraordinary  and  wonder- 
ful appeal  the  world  has  ever  known,  closed  with  a  song  dic- 
tated by  the  King  of  Heaven. 

Imploring  them,  "  Set  your  hearts  unto  all  the  words  which 
I  testify  among  you  this  day ;  for  it  is  not  a  vain  thing  for 
you,  because  it  is  your  life,"  Moses  blessed  them,  after  their 
tribes  and  pronounced  the  benediction,  "  Happy  art  thou,  O 
Israel ;  who  is  like  unto  thee,  O  people,  saved  by  the  Lord, 
the  shield  of  thy  help,  and  who  is  the  sword  of  thy  excel- 
lency !" 

As  he  delivered  his  last  blessing  to  his  people,  as  he  stood 
for  the  last  time  at  the  door  of  the  tabernacle,  and  gazed  on 
the  cloud,  which  had  hovered  forty  years  over  a  rebellious 
nation,  a  deep  emotion  came  over  him ;  for  a  moment  he 
bowed  his  head,  in  unison  with  the  sorrowing  assembly  ;  then, 
stepping  firmly  from  their  ranks,  he  crossed  the  plains  of 
Moab  alone.  Yet  not  alone,  for  the  wandering  people,  hav- 
ing now  reached  the  borders  of  the  destined  land,  the  pillar 
of  cloud  rose  high  in  the  air.  and  floated  on  before  the  holy 
man.  Tearful  eyes  followed  him,  marching  in  fearful  dignity 
to  his  tomb — not  one  friend  accompanied  his  steps,  as  he 
slowly  ascended  Mount  Nebo.  His  form  was  lost  in  the  dis- 
tance, but  the  cloud  was  visible  and  the  people  knelt,  over- 
come with  awe. 

Moses  stood  with  the  Lord  on  the  summit  of  Pisgah. 
Power  was  given  him  to  behold  the  land  of  his  affection  in 
all  its  goodly  extent.  He  saw  it,  and  with  a  prophet's  vis- 
ion, looked  far  down  the  vista  of  time,  till  the  holy  city  rose 
before  him,  with  its  glorious  temple,  its  gardens  and  its  pala- 
ces. For  one  instant  the  bright  star  of  Bethlehem  shone  on 
him,  and  he  involuntarily  bent  his  knee  before  the  babe  in 
the  manger.  Then  Mount.  Calvary,  with  its  incomprehensi- 
ble mysteries,  swept  across  the  field  of  vision  ;  he  shuddered 
and  grew  cold  at  the  awful  sight.  Quickly  he  beheld  Jeru- 


168  THE    UNKNOWN    GRAVE. 

^ 

salem  destroyed,  his  cherished  people  scattered  and  hunted 
like  beasts,  through  the  earth.  Once  more  he  would  have 
entreated  the  Lord  for  their  forgiveness,  had  not  a  blessed 
spectacle  burst  upon  his  view.  His  countrymen  were  return- 
ing toward  Canaan  from  every  land  under  heaven — songs 
and  rejoicings  were  in  their  mouths — the  beloved  Jerusalem 
stood  on  its  hills  in  redoubled  beauty,  while  the  church  of 
Jehovah,  the  Savior  of  mankind,  stood  open  day  and  night, 
for  all  the  tribes  of  the  earth.  "  Holiness  to  the  Lord," 
seemed  inscribed  in  glittering  characters  upon  the  face  of 
Nature.  It  was  enough — he  worshipped,  and  calmly  folding 
his  mantle  around  him,  laid  himself  down,  with  his  face  tow- 
ard the  land  of  Judea,  committing  his  soul  to  Him  who  gave 
it.  In  a  light  amber  of  flame  the  pillar  of  cloud  shot  up 
toward  the  zenith,  and  was  lost  to  view  in  the  celestial  path- 
way. 

A  smile  of  bliss  remained  on  the  parted  lips,  when  the 
guardian  angel  folded  his  wings  beside  the  departed.  He 
gazed  tenderly  on  the  mortal,  who  had  won  him  from  his 
heavenly  home,  and  whose  steps  he  had  watched  for  a  hun- 
dred and  twenty  years.  A  few  more  days  of  care,  and  the 
cold  remains  would  have  mouldered,  the  angel  would  be  free 
to  plume  his  flight  on  high.  Tenderly  he  raised  the  body  on 
his  airy  wings  and  bore  it  to  a  "  valley  of  Moab,  over  against 
Bethpeor" — there  he  buried  it,  and  rested  beside  the  grave, 
an  angelic  watcher  over  the  dead. 

It  was  night,  dark  and  tempestuous.  The  lightnings 
streamed  ever  and  anon  across  the  blackened  sky ;  the  wind 
howled  fiercely  along  the  valleys,  and  not  a  solitary  star  re- 
vealed itself.  It  was  such  a  time  as  the  spirits  of  darkness 
might  select  to  prowl  through  our  devoted  earth.  The  guar- 
dian angel  still  kept  his  watch,  with  drooping  wing,  beside 
the  tomb  of  Moses.  His  sensitive  nature  could  quickly  per- 
ceive the  approach  of  evil,  shrinking  from  its  contamination, 
as  he  remembered  the  hosts  hurled  from  their  shining  abodes 
in  heaven,  to  writhe  in  agony  through  ceaseless  eternity. 
Suddenly  the  air  seemed  blighted  and  scorched  ;  the  form  of 


THE    UNKNOWN    GRAVE.  169 

celestial  light  spread  his  wings  to  shelter  the  consecrated  spot 
from  harm.  Searching  around  with  eagle  glance,  he  discov- 
ered a  dismal  form,  wretched  and  haggard,  striding  beneath 
the  forest.  Full  well  he  knew  the  face,  whose  lineaments 
bore  the  impress  of  blasting  pride,  withering  hatred  and  gall- 
ing torment.  He  had  seen  that  gigantic  heighth,  when  clothed 
in  resplendent  majesty,  confronting  the  King  of  Kings — he 
had  borne  part  in  the  wars  of  Heaven,  when  the  highest  arch- 
angels foughi  with  the  haughty  spirit,  now  come  from  the 
depths  of  his  prison-house,  to  seek  out  the  sepulchre  of  the 
departed  Israelite.  "  O  Lucifer,  son  of  the  morning,  how 
art  thpu  fallen  !"  mourned  the  youthful  angel  while  darting 
through  "  the  widening  wastes  of  space,"  to  call  a  mightier 
arm  than  his,  to  confront  the  power  of  the  adversary.  Swift 
as  a  thought  he  alighted  in  Paradise — he  paused  not  to  quaff 
the  waters  of  life,  or  to  pluck  the  fruits  clustering  by  its 
banks.  He  stayed  his  flight  when  passing  the  multitude, 
who  shouted  "  Alleluia,  for  the  Lord  God  Omnipotent  reign- 
eth,"  and  his  sweet  voice  joined  the  cry  "  Amen,  Alleluia." 
The  youthful  angel  sought  the  prince  of  the  heavenly  war- 
riors, and  timidly  drawing  near  the  great  Michael,  related  his 
mission  on  earth,  and  told  how  Satan,  broken  loose  from  hell, 
h'ad  returned  to  earth,  seeking  the  body  of  Moses.  Michael 
dipped  his  radiant  wings  in  the  limpid  flood,  and  bade  the 
angel  guide  him  to  the  valley  of  Moab.  While  they  pursued 
their  way  they  caught  the  song  of  Moses,  "  Great  and  mar- 
vellous are  thy  woiks,  Lord  God  Almighty.  Just  and  true 
are  thy  ways,  thou  king  of  saints  ;  who  shall  not  fear  thee, 
O  Lord,  and  glorify  thy  name  ?  for  thou  art  holy."  Ineffable 
was  the  smile  the  departing  angels  exchanged,  and  swifter 
was  their  flight,  as  they  heard  the  joyful  accents.  It  was  a 
doleful  change  from  the  balmy  atmosphere  of  heaven  to  the 
dark  tempest  of  earth,  but  the  errand  on  which  they  had 
come,  caused  their  souls  to  glow  with  ardor.  Drawing  near 
the  sepulchre,  they  beheld  the  Arch-fiend  bending  over  the 
hallowed  grave — the  turf  was  removed,  and  he  was  about  to 
depart  with  his  prey.  A  grim  look  of  malicious  delight  sat 


170  THE    UNKNOWN    GRAVE. 

on  his  countenance,  and  the  approach  of  the  heavenly  mes- 
sengers was  unobserved.  Instinctively  the  guardian  angel 
interposed  between  the  giant  foe  and  the  body,  so  long  his 
care.  Satan  sorrowfully  eyed  the  beautiful  spirit,  and  a  deri- 
sive laugh  hissed  from  his  polluted  mouth,  as  he  raised  his 
arm  to  thrust  aside  the  celestial  guardian — but  it  fell  power- 
less when  a  familiar  voice  sternly  said,  "  Lucifer,  son  of  the 
morning,  what  doest  thou  here  ?" 

The  wretched  outcast  started  to  an  attitude  of  defiance, 
exclaiming,  "  Thou,  also,  Michael,  warrior  slave  of  thy  God, 
why  hast  thou  come  ?  darest  thou  confront  me  in  my  own 
realm  ?  I  tell  thee,  the  power  here  is  mine ;  retire,  where 
thy  master  can  aid  thy  feeble  powers  ;  fly,  base  worshipper 
of  another's-  might."  The  miscreant  felt  sure  of  victory ; 
his  form  towered  above  the  lofty  palm-trees;  and  his  minions 
filled  the  air  with  their  infernal  cries.  The  elements  appeared 
submissive  to  his  will ;  a  chaos  of  storm  raged  around  the 
sepulchre  ;  ancient  trees  were  torn  from  the  soil,  like  threads 
of  gossamer;  blackness  of  darkness  succeeded  the  sulphurous 
glare  of  the  lightnings  ;  thunders  seemed  to  break  on  their 
heads,  blasphemies  rode  on  every  drop  of  the  streams  rush- 
ing to  the  ground.  But  the  archangel  was  clad  from  the  ar- 
mory of  Heaven,  and  his  panoply  brightened  amidst  the  tur- 
moil. He  dared  not  utter  a  railing  accusation,  and  serenely 
answering,  "  The  Lord  rebuke  thee,"  drew  his  glittering 
sword. 

"  Thou  art  not  unconscious  the  sceptre  of  earth  is  swayed 
by  me — wouldst  thou  madly  contend,  alone,  with  the  hosts  of 
hell  ?" 

The  warrior  angel  replied,  " '  Holiness  to  the  Lord'  shall 
be  inscribed  even  on  this  earth.  Depart,  or  address  thyself 
to  battle." 

Ere  his  strength  had  been  wasted  under  the  boiling  surges 
of  his  abode,  the  Fiend  had  tried  his  skill  with  the  prince  of 
the  heavenly  armies.  'T  were  worse  than  madness  for  the 
defeated  exile  to  confront  the  being,  around  whom  hung  a 
celestial  flood  of  splendor.  lie  quailed  beneath  the  gaze  of 


THE    PASTORAL    TIMES.  171 

Michael ;  every  fibre  in  his  immortal  nature  writhed  under 
the  lashes  of  pride,  while  fearing  at  the  presence  of  the  ser- 
vant of  God.  Scorching  passions  distorted  his  visage,  as  he 
sullenly  receded  before  the  now  flaming  sword — but  the  ele- 
ments caught  his  satanic  fury,  foaming  in  impotent  wrath 
above  and  around  the  angelic  visitants.  They  carefully  re- 
placed the  turf,  and  covering  the  sepulchre,  watched  till  dawn 
of  day.  The  storm  had  passed  as  the  archangel  winged  his 
way  to  Heaven,  again  victorious  over  the  foe  of  God  ;  but 
the  guardian  spirit  held  his  watch  in  the  valley  of  Moab,  till 
the  mouldering  ashes  had  mingled  with  the  sods  of  the  earth. 

NELLER, 


For  the  Magnolia. 

THE    PASTOR A.L   TIMES. 

BY  MISS  ANXE  T.  WILBUR. 

YE  were  fair,  ye  visions  of  olden  time, 

When  the  beautiful  earth  was  in  its  prime ; 

When  the  shepherd  youths  tended  their  fleecy  flocks 

Mid  quiet  vales,  beneath  sheltering  rocks; 

And  angels  came  down  to  commune  with  men, 

And  heaven  was  opened  to  earthly  ken. 

Ye  were  bright,  ye  visions  of  olden  time, 
When  shepherd  youths  soared  to  deeds  sublime; 
When  the  boy  who  was  Israel's  future  king, 
Laid  the  giant  low  with  the  shepherd's  sling; 
And  mighty  men  fell  in  the  fierce  battle's  wrath, 
And  maidens  flung  wreaths  in  the  conqueror's  path. 

On  Syria's  plains  in  the  tranquil  night 
Shepherds  kept  watch  by  the  soft  moonlight; 
When  the  song  of  the  angels  swelled  out  on  the  air, 
And  the  glory  of  heaven  shone  radiantly  there; 
And  led  by  a  starbeam,  the  shepherds  adored 
The  babe  in  the  manger,  their  Savior  and  Lord. 


172 


LETTERS  FROM  EUROPE. 


For  the  Magnolia. 

LETTERS  FROM  EUROPE-NO.  VI. 

[We  were  compelled  to  give  but  a  part  of  the  letter  of  our  correspondent 
in  the  last  Magnolia.  The  following  is  the  conclusion  of  the  sketch  of  a 
visit  to  the  British  Museum.] 

Thomas  Hartwdl  Home — King  William  IV. — His  Character  toiuards  the 
end  of  his  Reign — Mrs.  Jordan. 

AFTER  wandering  through  the  labyrinth  of  curiosities  in 
the  Museum,  we  sat  down  with  Mr.  Home  in  a  snug  little 
recess,  and  had  some  interesting  conversation.  I  mentioned 
the  success  of  his  "  Introduction  to  the  Study  of  the  Bible" 
in  America.  His  eyes  sparkled  at  the  allusion,  and  he  spoke 
with  great  interest  of  our  country.  He  is,  in  fact,  more  pop- 
ular as  an  author  among  us,  than  in  his  own  land.  His  work 
is  considered  by  critics  here  (and  I  rather  think  by  keen  ones 
in  America)  a  valuable  compilation  of  authorities,  but  desti- 
tute of  any  considerable  original  merit,  and  perhaps  needing 
the  revision  of  a  more  cautious  mind.  It  is  an  encyclopedia 
of  biblical  facts  and  criticisms,  and,  like  all  works  made  up 
chiefly  of  quotations  and  second-hand  thoughts,  lacks  cohe- 
rency, condensation,  and,  to  some  extent,  accuracy.  Some 
American  author  expresses  surprise  that  Mr.  Home  has  not 
met  with  more  promotion,  and  received  literary  honors  in  his 
own  country — for  he  is,  I  believe,  but  a  vicar,  and  has  no 
double  D.  attached  to  his  name,  at  least  none  received  from 
English  or  Scotch  institutions.  I  know  of  no  other  reason 
than  the  impression  among  the  learned  here  respecting  his 
literary  character.  It  is  not  because  "  he  has  not  risen  in  the 
usual  manner,"  as  has  been  said.  Dr.  Adam  Clarke  did  not 
rise  in  the  "  usual  manner,"  but  he  was  a  "  Pashaw  of  many 
toils"  among  John  Bull's  learned  ones. 

Mr.  Home  is  considerably  advanced  in  years ;  his  head  is 
gray,  but  his  health  is  apparently  good,  and  his  small  eyes 
singularly  brilliant.  He  is  what  you  would  call  a  "  nervous 


LETTERS    FROM    EUROPE. 

man,"  full  of  quick  motion,  and  incessant  in  conversation ; 
you  can  with  difficulty  interpose  a  question.  NHis  memory  is 
truly  wonderful,  and  struck  me  as  his  greatest  faculty.  The 
minutest  facts  and  dates  and  passages  from  authors  were  re- 
peated by  him,  as  if  by  instinct.  His  conversation,  like  his 
books,  abounds  in  quotations,  and  his  mind  is  evidently  a  vast 
compilation  of  impressions  from  books.  He  dresses  in  the 
old  style  with  breeches  and  buckles,  and  is,  for  his  intelligence 
and  colloquial  vivacity,  one  of  the  most  interesting  old  men  I 
have  met  in  Europe. 

An  allusion  to  an  object  within  sight,  connected  with  the 
history  of  the  last  English  King,  William  IV.,  led  off  the  old 
gentleman  with  locomotive  speed  on  that  track.  We  ex- 
pressed the  rather  startling  idea,  that  the  sailor  King  was  rest- 
ing comfortably  in  heaven,  notwithstanding  his  known  profli- 
gacies. The  monarch,  he  thought,  had  lived  a  pious  life  the 
last  few  years  of  his  reign,  not  merely  in  the  forms  of  moral- 
ity and  religion,  but  in  their  spirit.  One  of  onr  company  al- 
luded to  the  affair  of  Mrs.  Jordan.  The  good  vicar  endeav- 
ored to  explain  it.  The  King,  he  said,  would  have  married 
her,  for  he  sincerely  loved  her,  but  the  laws  of  the  realm  pro- 
hibited the  union  of  a  member  of  the  royal  family  with  a 
subject.  Yet  he  lived  with  her  as  a  faithful  husband,  though 
he  could  not  have  the  usual  formalities  of  law  to  sanction  the 
relation  ;  he  was  sincere  in  his  attachment  to  her ;  as  a  proof, 
his  treatment  of  their  children  was  cited.  They  were  ac- 
knowledged, educated,  endowed,  titled  and  respectably  mar- 
ried by  the  King.  They  were  the  objects  of  his  affectionate 
regard  during  his  life,  and  stood  around  his  dying  bed.  Mr. 
Home  asserted  that  his  treatment  of  Mrs.  Jordan,  after  mar- 
rying his  Queen,  was  honorable  ;  that  the  usual  reports  on 
this  point  are  fictitious ;  that  he  could  not  show  any  very  pub- 
lic respect  without  a  bad  example,  but  he  ever  spoke  of  her 
with  regard,  and  had,  at  his  death,  in  the  bonds  of  charity, 
the  sculptor,  a  work  representing  her  with  a  couple  of  their 
favorite  children.  He  kept  the  Sabbath  with  strict  propriety, 
abolishing  all  the  Bacchanalian  feasts  which  George  IV.  had 


174  SCANDAL. 

rendered  customary  at  court  on  that  day.  Some  lime  before 
his  death,  the  "Queen,  with  his  approbation,  had  copies  of 
Wilberforce's  "  Practical  View,"  distributed  among  all  the 
Members  of  the  court.  He  was  liberal  to  religious  purposes, 
&c.,  &c.  These  were  Mr.  Home's  grounds  of  hope  for  the 
soul  of  the  sailor  King.  We  were  glad  to  hear  them,  how- 
ever ambiguous  they  might  be. 

We  drove  from  the  Museum  to  National  Gallery ;  but  of 
this  in  my  next.  Yours,  &c.  J. 


For  the  Magnolia. 

SCANDAL. 

On  eagle  wings  immortal  scandals  fly, 
While  virtuous  actions  are  but  born  to  die. 

BY  MISS  ANNE  T.  WILBUR. 

IN  a  small  country  village  of  New-England  lived  an  indus- 
trious and  sober  set  of  people,  so  far  removed  from  the  city's 
busy  hum,  and  so  surrounded  with  Nature's  serene  loveliness 
and  repose  that  a  stranger  would  have  thought  that  they  must 
have  become  imbued  with  the  meek  and  quiet  spirit  of  the 
vales  and  woods  around  them,  and  be  almost  above  the  weak- 
nesses and  faults  incident  to  humanity.  Were  not  the  noble 
hills,  towering  in  lofty  sublimity  to  the  skies,  ever  luring  their 
thoughts  upward  ?  Were  not  the  peaceful  and  tranquil  lakes, 
upon  whose  bosoms  floated  gently  the  little  bark  of  the  fisher 
wooing  them  always  to  linger  along  their  shaded  margins  or 
sail  over  their  rippling  waters? — not  to  mention  the  golden 
sunrise  and  the  rosy  sunset.  Was  not  the  fount  of  intel- 
lectual knowledge  flowing  constantly  in  their  midst,  and  might 
they  not  slake  their  thirst  at  its  inexhaustible  and  invigorating 
waters  ?  Nay,  more,  was  not  the  white  spire  of  the  village 


SCANDAL.  175 

/ 

church  ever  pointing  heavenward  to  show  that  the  highest 
and  noblest  of  all  knowledge  was  there  communicated  to  men 
by  ambassadors  from  God  ?  Were  not  these  people  then,  as 
we  might  naturally  suppose,  a  pure,  united,  unsophisticated 
race,  communing  with  Nature,  and  drinking  deeply  of  her 
spirit,  loving  their  Creator  and  one  another  ?  Like  our  first 
parents  amid  the  bowers  of  Paradise,  they  saw  "all  fruits 
which  were  fair  to  the  eye,  pleasant  to  the  taste,"  and  "  to  be 
desired  to  make  one  wise,"  hanging  temptingly  within  their 
reach.  But  alas,  in  the  shady  grove  and  far  among  the  tan- 
gled thickets  larked,  as  in  Paradise,  the  old  serpent.  Fertile 
in  invention,  he  gradually  estranged  them  from  the  haunts  of 
their  childhood  and  from  its  innocent  tastes.  Assuming  the 
garb  of  an  angel  of  light,  as  Lucifer  knoweth  how  when  he 
would  beguile  men,  he  whispered  in  their  ears  that  it  was  a 
waste  of  time  to  commune  with  Nature ;  he  alienated  their 
hearts  from  the  friends  of  their  youth  by  implanting  base  sur-, 
mises  and  mutual  distrust.  One  of  his  arts  was  to  creep  into 
a  benevolent  society,  where  under  pretext  of  aiding  the  mem-- 
bers  in  working  for  the  poor,  and  furnishing  means  to  en- 
lighten the  ignorant,  his  favorite  projects  could  be  more  suc- 
cessfully carried  on.  To  sow  discord  among  friends,  give 
circulation  to  all  the  floating  gossip  which,  originating  in  low 
minds,  passes  from  mouth  to  mouth,  and  from  heart  to  heart, 
(for  V  out  of  the  abundance  of  the  heart  the  mouth  speak- 
eth,")  spreading  its  poison  through  communities,  is  one  of  the 
forms  of  mischief  in  which  the  arch-enemy  delights.  He 
had  his  plausible  arguments,  and  as  in  olden  time,  quoted 
Scripture.  Affairs  went  on  swimmingly.  If  work  grew  slack, 
conversation — if  conversation  it  might  be  called — grew  brisk. 
The  private  observations  of  each  individual  on  her  neighbors 
now  found  a  convenient  and  ready  market.  The  wardrobe 
of  each  member,  as  its  contents  appeared  in  the  social  circle, 
formed  a  useful  and  interesting  subject  of  discussion  in  those 
private  and  family  gatherings  which  followed. 

In  the  course  of  time,  however,  the  interest  in  benevolent 
objects  began  to  flag ;  and  as  it  was  quite  desirable  that  it 


176  SCANDAL. 

| 

should  be  revived,  a  happy  idea  suggested  itself  to  the  col- 
lective wisdom  of  the  society.  This  was  that  on  the  annual 
meeting,  their  venerable  pastor  should  be  requested  to  deliver 
a  public  address.  He  was  waited  upon  by  a  committee,  and 
readily  accepted.  All  were  on  the  tiptoe  of  expectation. 
The  benevolence  which  had  hitherto  hid,  as  it  were,  its  light 
under  a  bushel,  was  now  to  be  made  manifest  to  the  world. 
The  records  of  the  society  were  about  to  be  laid  before  the 
public.  The  day  arrived — every  heart  beat  high  with  antic- 
ipated triumph.  The  aged  clergyman  went  through  the  pre- 
liminary exercises  with  becoming  solemnity,  and  as  he  rose 
to  announce  his  text,  all  eyes  were  turned  upon  him  with 
thrilling  interest.  It  was  in  these  memorable  words: 

"  He  that  uttereth  a  slander,  is  a  fool." 

Here  he  paused  and  looked  around  upon  the  assembly. 
Some  evidently  thought  the  man  had  taken  leave  of  his 
senses.  Others  whispered  their  nearest  neighbors  that  there 
was  no  such  text  in  the  Bible.  Others,  still,  were  shocked  at 
such  strong  language  from  the  pulpit.  The  undaunted  cler- 
gyman proceeded  to  repeat  his  text,  with  additional  emphasis 
on  the  last  word. 

"  He  that  uttereth  a  slander,  is  a  fool." — Solomon. 

Solomon,  as  every  body  knows,  has  been  for  some  years 
past,  regarded  as  indisputable  authority,  so  the  fair  dames 
were  fain  to  swallow  the  nauseous  pill,  however  reluctantly. 
Our  informant,  a  skilful  stenographer,  thus  reports  the  dis- 
course. 

Slander,  my  sisters,  is  perhaps  in  its  strictest  sense,  the 
bearing  of  false  witness  against  our  neighbor — in  its  broader 
and  more  general  acceptation,  it  includes  all  idle  gossip,  all 
unwarrantable  prying  into  our  neighbor's  affairs,  or  repetition 
of  trivial  and  foolish  reports,  which  are  beneath  the  dignity, 
and  an  abuse  of  the  faculties  of  rational  and  intelligent  be- 
ings. The  All-wise  Creator  in  giving  the  power  of  speech  to 
his  creatures,  and  teaching  them  to  use  language,  did  not 
design  that  the  tongue  should  be  employed  as  an  instrument 


SLANDER.  177 

of  mischief,  but  for  the  improvement  and  happiness  of  man- 
kind. In  regard  to  the  association  before  whom  I  have  been 
requested  to  speak,  I  have  a  few  remarks  to  make.  To  re- 
lieve the  poor  and  needy,  to  send  education  and  religious 
instruction  to  the  destitute,  are  praiseworthy  objects  ;  but  if 
they  can  be  attained  only  at  the  sacrifice  of  the  reputation 
and  happiness  of  our  nearest  neighbors,  had  better  be  dis- 
pensed with.  A  private  record  of  the  proceedings  of  your 
society,  kept  by  one  of  your  own  number,  and  handed  me  a 
short  time  since,  may  serve  to  explain  my  meaning. 

"Jan.  llth.  Met  at  Mrs.  A.'s.  Miss  B.  sewed  up  the 
sleeve  of  a  shirt,  during  which  performance  she  entertained 
her  companions  with  the  following  intellectual  and  highly  im- 
proving discourse.  '  Did  you  see  Miss  C.'s  bonnet  last  Sun- 
day :  How  old-fashioned  it  was  !  and  she  told  me  it  cost  ten 
dollars.  If  I  had  to  earn  my  own  living,  as  she  has,  I  should 
be  ashamed  to  be  seen  with  such  a  bonnet.  Did  you  hear 
how  mean  and  stingy  lawyer  Such-an-one  is  ?  and  his  wife  is 
just  like  him.  I  heard  she  bought  half  a  cent's  worth  of 
emptings.'  Miss  D.  knit  twice  across  the  heel  of  a  stocking, 
while  making  the  following  remarks  :  '  Mrs.  E.  wore  a  new 
dress  to  meeting  last  Sunday.  I  think  she  needed  one 
enough,  for  I  believe  she  hasn't  had  one  these  two  years.  It 
was  only  njnepenny  calico,  though.  Rather  than  wear  a 
ninepenny  calico  to  meeting,  I  believe  I  would  stay  at  home. 
Hbw  common  white  bonnets  are  getting  !  I  wish  I  could 
wear  mine  out.  How  old  Miss  J.  looks  !  I  really  believe  she 
is  fifty.  By  the  way,  I  can  tell  you  something  about  her — 
but  you  must  not  tell.'  Here  follows  an  anecdote  which  is 
privately  whispered  to  each  individual  in  the  room,  who  is  of 
course  expected  to  keep  it  a  profound  secret,  and  who  actu- 
ally does  so  until  she  sees  some  one  who  was  unfortunately 
absent  from  the  meeting.  At  length,  the  rills  of  scandal, 
which  have  been  hitherto  coursing  in  separate  channels,  com- 
mingle and  flow  together, 

"  In  one  weak,  washy,  everlasting  flood." 
VOL.  II.  12 


178  SCANDAL. 

'  My  ear  is  pained,  my  heart  is  sick,'  as  '  at  every  breath  a 
reputation  dies.' " 

The  good  old  clergyman  here  laid  down  his  manuscript 
and  wiped  his  spectacles,  during  which  time  the  matrons  and 
maidens  looked  unutterable  things.  Every  body  thought  he 
meant  every  body  else.  He  soon  resumed  : 

"  A  word  to  my  youthful  hearers.  I  see  before  me  many 
whose  countenances  are  radiant  with  health  and  happiness. 
Most  lovely  are  ye  in  your  youthful  bloom,  fair  maidens. 
Naught  but  words  of  kindness  should  dwell  on  your  lips,  or 
thoughts  of  kindness  in  your  hearts.  But  when  I  mingle  in 
your  social  circles,  and  unobserved,  listen  to  your  discourse,  I 
am  constantly  reminded  of  a  fairy  tale,  doubtless  familiar  to 
you  all.  There  were  two  sisters,  who  had  each  a  gift  be- 
stowed upon  them  by  a  fairy  ;  the  one  as  a  reward,  the  other 
as  a  punishment.  In  the  former  case,  each  word  as  it  fell 
from  the  lip,  was  transformed  into  a  precious  jewel ;  from  the 
mouth  of  the  other  issued  toads,  vipers,  and  every  foul  and 
unclean  reptile.  So  methinks  is  it  when  from  your  lips  words 
of  idle  gossip  or  causeless  censure  escape.  Each  word  be- 
comes a  poisonous  reptile,  whose  venom  spreads  far  and 
wide  ;  and  no  beauty  is  so  dazzling  that  it  can  lead  us  to 
lose  sight  of  that  inward  impurity  of  heart  which  thus  man- 
ifests itself  in  the  outward  expression. 

In  conclusion,  I  would  urge  upon  you,  in  a  moral  and  re- 
ligious point  of  view,  to  avoid  this  easily  besetting  sin.  By 
the  evils  mingled  with  your  benevolence  you  are  prejudicing 
against  it  those  whose  warm  hearts  and  kindly  feelings  might 
else  be  won  to  the  entire  love  and  service  of  their  Creator. 
You  are  constantly  breaking  the  golden  rule.  In  sowing  dis- 
cord you  are  forfeiting  the  blessing  promised  to  peacemakers. 
You  are  forgetting  that  judgment  is  threatened  against  those 
who  judge  others.  Be  truly  benevolent,  love  your  neighbors 
as  yourselves,  help  the  poor  and  needy,  send  the  gospel  to 
the  heathen,  and  the  God  of  love  and  peace  will  be  with 
you." 

Thus  ended  the  venerable  clergyman's  discourse.     A  sol- 

I 


SKETCHES  OF  WESLEY.  179 

emn  silence  pervaded  the  assembly,  and  "  they  went  out  one 
by  one."  Was  it  beneficial?  On  this  subject  we  cannot 
speak.  We  only  know  that  the  clergyman  was  soon  pro- 
nounced superannuated,  and  a  younger  man  supplied  his 
place.  The  village  church  and  the  school-house  have  gone 
to  decay  ;  every  thing  which  betokened  a  thriving  and  active 
people,  has  disappeared  ;  strangers  pass  rapidly  through  the 
desolate  streets,  lest  somebody  should  hail  them  with  some  of 
the  thousand  queries  with  which  th»  inhabitants  are  fond  of 
detaining  passers-by.  By  constantly  nourishing  themselves 
with  gossip,  scandal  has  become  necessary  to  their  very  exist- 
ence. It  is  their  meat  and  drink,  and  whatever  incapacitates 
them  for  its  enjoyment,  at  once  deprives  them  of  life.  This 
is  a  lamentable  state  of  things ;  but  there  is  undoubtedly  a 
tendency  that  way  in  many  other  villages  not  known  to  the 
writer.  Happy  they  who  need  not  bow  their  heads  in  shame 
with  the  consciousness  that  they  too  are  becoming  victirns  of 
that  emissary  of  the  old  serpent,  the  demon  Scandal. 


For  the  Magnolia. 

SKETCHES   OF   WESLEY. -NO.   VI. 

Br  REV.  D.  WISE. 

[Conclusion.] 

Mr.  Wesley's  Death — His  dying  remarks — Feeling  concerning  his  dealh 
— His  funeral — His  person — Dress — Manner  in  the  pulpit — Writings — 
Charities— Manners — Concluding  remarks. 

HAVING  lived  to  see  300  travelling,  and  1,000  local  preach- 
ers, with  80,000  persons  gathered  into  his  societies,  this  good 
and  great  man  was  summoned  to  pass  that  "  bourne  from 
which  no  traveller  returns."  His  end  was  like  his  life,  calm 
and  cheerful.  Three  days  prior  to  his  death,  he  said,  refer- 
ring to  a  former  illness,  "  My  language  then  was 


180  SKETCHES  OF   WESLEY. 

I  the  chief  of  sinners  am, 

But  Jesus  died  for  me." 
/ 

"  Is  this  the  present  language  of  jour  heart  ?"  inquired  a 
friend. 

"  Yes,"  he  replied,  firmly. 
The  friend  then  said  : 

"  Bold  I  approach  the  Eternal  throne 

And  claim  the  crown,  through  Christ,  my  own." 

"  It  is  enough.  He  our  precious  Tmmanuel  has  purchased, 
has  promised  all." 

With  affecting  earnestness,  Mr.  W.  replied  ;  "He  is  all! 
He  is  all!" 

The  day  before  his  death  he  sung  a  hymn  and  then  called 
for  pen  and  ink — but  could  not  use  it. 

"Tell  me  what  you  would  write ;"  said  one  who  stood  by. 

"  Nothing,  but  that  God  is  with  us  !" 

Soon  after  he  sung  again, 

"I'll  praise  my  maker  while  I've  breath,"  &c. 

Wlren  his  -friends  prayed  with  him  during  the  day,  his 
earnest  AMEN  was  remarkably  touching.  Toward  the  close 
of  the  day  he  bade  them  a  tender  farewell.  After  that  when 
he  could  no  longer  make  himself  understood  he  gathered  alt 
his  strength  and  cried,  "  The  best  of  all  is  that  God  is  with 
us  !"  then  lifting  his  arm  he  cried  again,  "  The  best  of  all  is 
that  God  is  with  us." 

The  next  day,  March  2d,  was  his  last.  His  well-tried 
friend,  Joseph  Bradford,  prayed  with  him.  He  said,  "Fare- 
well," and  without  a  struggle  or  groan,  as  when  an  infant 
sleeps,  his  friends  kneeling  round  his  bed,  this  pastor  of 
thousands,  closed  his  eyes  in  death  having  lived  nearly  eighty- 
eight  years. 

His  death  caused  deep  feeling.  The  day  prior  to  his  in- 
terment his  remains  were  placed  in  the  Chapel  near  his 
dwelling.  So  dense  were  the  crowds  that  flocked  to  gaze  on 
his  remains,  that  business  was  suspended  in  the  City  Board, 
and  carriages  could  scarcely  pass. 


SKETCHES   OF  WESLEY.  181 

He  was  buried  early  in  the  morning,  to  avoid  accident, 
from  the  vast  concourse  expected  should  it  have  been  later 
in  the  day.  When  the  clergyman,  who  officiated  at  the 
grave,  pronounced  the  words  "  Forasmuch  as  it  hath  pleased 
Almighty  God,  to  take  to  himself  the  soul  of  our  dear  father 
here  departed,"  the  people,  who  nearly  filled  the  burial 
ground,  burst  into  tears  and  loud  weeping,  and  scarcely  a 
dry  eye  was  to  be  seen  in  the  entire  assembly. 

SKETCH  OF  HIS  PERSON  AND  CHARACTER. 

Mr.  Wesley's  figure  was  remarkable — his  stature  was  low, 
his  person  spare  and  thin — his  step  firm — his  appearance, 
vigorous  and  muscular — his  face  was  a  very  fine  one.  A 
clear  smooth  forehead — aquiline  nose — bright  and  piercing 
eye — fresh  complexion,  indicative  of  the  most  perfect  health. 
His  demeanor  was  cheerful,  yet  grave,  sprightly,  yet  tranquil. 

In  dress  he  was  a  pattern  of  neatness  and  simplicity,  wear- 
ing a  narrow  plaited  stock,  a  coat  with  plain  upright  collar, 
no  buckles  at  his  knees.  This,  with  an  air  of  general  neat- 
ness, and  a  head  as  white  as  snow,  gave  him  an  apostolic  and 
venerable  appearance. 

Of  his  learning  we  have  already  spoken.  In  the  pulpit, 
his  action  was  calm  and  natural,  pleasing  and  expressive — 
his  voice  clear  and  manly — style  perspicuous,  neat,  simple 
and  forcible.  His  sermons  were  usually  short,  seldom  ex- 
ceeding more  than  half  an  hour.  His  subjects,  judiciously 
chosen,  always  enlighted  the  head  and  warmed  the  heart. 

His  labors  were  excessive.  For  fifty  years  he  travelled 
4,500  miles  annually,  preached  three  or  four  times  a  day. 
For  sixty  years  he  rose  at  four,  retired  at  ten,  and  was  con- 
stantly employed.  He  was  a  great  reader  and  a  voluminous 
writer.  His  notes  on  the  New  Testament — his  sermons — his 
treaties — translations,  &c.,  &c.,  for  their  high  character  and 
quantity  have  been  a  wonder  to  his  friends. 

Mr.  Wesley  was  the  most  charitable  man  in  England. 
His  liberality  had  no  limit  but  an  empty  pocket.  He  gave 
away  his  entire  income,  after  barely  supplying  his  own  neces- 


182    LEAVES  FROM  THE  NOTE  BOOK  OF  A  GOVERNESS. 

skies.  When  his  salary  was  one  hundred  and  fifty  dollars, 
he  gave  away  ten  dollars ;  when  three  hundred  dollars,  he 
gave  one  hundred  and  fifty-  dollars ;  when  it  was  four  hun- 
dred and  fifty  dollars,  he  gave  three  hundred  dollars  ;  when 
it  was  six  hundred  dollars,  he  gave  away  four  hundred  and 
sixty  dollars.  Thus  he  did  to  the  end  of  his  life,  and  though, 
had  he  desired,  he  might  have  amassed  thousands,  he  died 
worth  less  than  fifty  dollars,  beside  his  books  and  personal 
property.  Money,  with  him,  was  only  an  instrument  of  use- 
fulness. 

In  social  life,  Mr.  W.  was  extremely  agreeable ;  his  tem- 
per was  remarkably  placable — not  naturally,  but  by  religious 
discipline.  He  bore  persecutions  and  insults,  without  visible 
anger,  and  no  man  ever  possessed  more  of  the  spirit  of  for- 
giveness. 

Such  was  the  man  known  as  the  founder  of  Methodism. 
Though  dead,  he  yet  speaks — he  lives  a  double  life.  In  his 
life  time,  he  was  a  father  to  thousands.  Since  his  death,  his 
memory  has  found  a  shrine  in  the  hearts  of  millions,  and 
long  after  such  names  as  Alexander,  Caesar  and  Napoleon 
shall  cease  to  have  admirers,  John  Wesley  will  be  loved  and 
honored  by  the  good  among  mankind. 


Far  the  Magnolia. 

LEAVES  FROM  THE  NOTE  BOOK  OF  A  GOVERNESS, 

OR    PICTURES    OF    THE    PASTi 

BY    LAURA    LOVELL. 

NO.     IV. 

I  AM  now  about  to  give  an  account  of  my  journey  to  Wood- 
vale,  and  my  adventures  on  the  way,  which  ought  perhaps  to 
have  preceded  the  other  "  leaves ;"  but  the  materials  were 


LEAVES  FROM  THE  NOTE  BOOK  OF  A  GOVERNESS.    183 

not  in  my  possession  when  those  were  written ;  besides  it  is 
more  agreeable  to  look  back  upon  a  somewhat  tedious  jour- 
ney when  we  have  arrived  safely  at  a  quiet  and  pleasant  rest- 
ing place ;  and  my  readers  may  imagine  themselves  now  do- 
mesticated at  Woodvale.  I  shall  quote  from  letters  written 
soon  after  my  arrival,  the  impressions  being  of  course  more 
vivid,  and  the  recollections  more  distinct  than  they  would 
now  be  if  taken  from  memory's  tablet  alone.  They  will  be 
desultory,  but  I  have  promised  sketches  only,  not  perfect  pic- 
tures of  southern  life.  My  journey  took  place  in  the  depth 
of  winter,  and  I  will  commence  the  account  from  my  arrival 
at  Washington. 

"  Washington  is  a  very  unfinished  place.  Its  streets  are 
wide,  and  the  buildings  much  scattered.  It  is  celebrated  as 
the  city  of  magnificent  distances.  We  visited  the  National 
Institute,  and  saw  there,  among  other  things,  the  clothes  worn 
by  Gen.  Washington,  his  camp  equipage,  the  original  Declar- 
ation of  Independence,  treaties  with  different  nations,  a  string 
of  pearls  and  a  gold  snuff-box  studded  with  diamonds,  given 
by  the  Emperor  Alexander  of  Russia  to  one  of  our  consuls. 
The  public  officers  are  not  allowed  to  keep  the  presents  they 
receive.  The  latter  articles  were  stolen  a  few  years  since, 
and  now  there  are  bells  connected  with  them  which  would 
ring  in  every  part  of  the  building  if  the  precious  gifts  were 
touched.  There  are  also  all  kinds  of  animals  and  birds 
stuffed,  mummies,  the  heads  of  two  New- Zealand  chiefs,  tat- 
tooed, horrible-looking  objects.  There  were  specimens  of 
American  manufactures,  from  carpets  made  in  Lowell  to  ma- 
ple sugar  made  in  Vermont ;  all  kinds  of  ware,  and  speci- 
mens of  rare  fruit.  We  also  went  into  a  room  where  we  saw 
models  of  every  thing  which  has  been  patented  ;  little  pianos, 
sofas,  bedsteads,  railroad  cars,  stages,  stoves,  &.c.  After- 
wards we  visited  the  capitol.  There  is  a  garden  before  it, 
and  a  flight  of  steps  leads  up  to  a  terrace  surrounding  the 
building.  From  this  there  is  a  fine  view  of  Washington. 
We  went  up  a  long  flight  of  stairs  into  the  rotunda,  a  circular 
room  in  the  centre  of  the  capitol.  It  is  surrounded  with  large 


184    LEAVES  FROM  THE  NOTE  BOOK  OF  A  GOVERNESS. 

historical  pictures.  One  represents  the  embarkation  of  the 
Pilgrims ;  one  the  baptism  of  Pocahontas ;  and  two  others, 
battles.  There  are  two  vacant  compartments,  but  the  pic- 
tures intended  to  fill  them  are  now  being  painted.  We  then 
went  into  the  Senate  Chamber.  It  is  small,  and  filled  with 
handsome  desks  and  chairs  for  the  Senators.  Two  little  boys- 
were  constantly  running  about  with  papers  from  one  to  an- 
other. These  were  pages,  and  I  dare  say  felt  as  though  they 
were  intrusted  with  the  affairs  of  the  nation.  We  then  vis- 
ited the  Hall  of  Representatives,  which  is  similar  to  the  other 
but  much  larger.  One  of  the  members  was  declaiming  vio- 
lently on  the  Abolition  question.  It  was  John  Quincy  Ad- 
ams. Afterwards  we  went  into  the  Supreme  Court-room.  I 
was  much  pleased  with  an  anecdote  told  me  by  Capt.  1\  At 
the  time  of  the  duel  between  Graves  and  Cilley.  the  Senate 
and  House  put  on  badges  of  mourning,  and  when  they  were 
ready  to  attend  the  funeral,  sent  word  to  the  Supreme  Court 
that  they  were  waiting  for  them.  The  latter  sent  back  a  mes- 
sage that  they  could  not  attend  the  funeral  of  a  murderer. 
As  the  highest  authority  in  the  land,  they  set  a  noble  example 
in  discountenancing  the  barbarous  practice  of  duelling.  We 
went  into  the  east  garden  of  the  capitol,  to  see  the  statue  of 
Washington.  It  was  intended  for  the  centre  of  the  rotunda, 
but  the  light  is  not  good  for  it  there,  so  a  building  has  been 
constructed  for  this  purpose.  It  strikes  one  very  unpleasantly 
to  see  the  form  of  the  father  of  his  country  stowed  away  in 
an  outhouse.  It  is  a  colossal  statue ;  and  I  thought  if  there 
were  less  of  the  body  and  more  of  the  spirit  of  Washington 
in  the  neighborhood  of  the  seat  of  government,  the  country 
would  be  the  gainer. 

The  next  morning  I  left  Washington  in  a  vehicle  called  by 
courtesy,  a  stage.  It  was  open  in  front,  old,  ragged  and  rick- 
ety. We  started  before  light,  and  were  therefore  obliged  to 
set  out  without  fire  or  breakfast,  cold  and  hungry.  The  roads 
were  horrible,  and  it  was  at  imminent  peril  of  our  lives  that 
we  passed  over  them.  We  left  at  six,  and  reached  our  place 
for  breakfasting,  about  fifteen  miles  from  Washington,  at 


LEAVES  FROM  THE  NOTE  BOOK  OF  A  GOVERNESS.    185 

twelve.  There,  although  half-starved,  I  could  eat  nothing  on 
the  table.  The  coffee  was  muddy,  the  warm  cakes  heavy, 
the  corn  bread  sour,  and  the  meat  tough.  Here  we  took  a 
new  driver,  formerly  a  sailor,  who  was  on  board,  the  Missouri 
when  it  was  burnt.  He  was  a  true  son  of  the  ocean,  and 
cared  very  little  how  many  times  we  upset,  provided  the  mail 
reached  its  destination  in  season,  allowing  for  several  calls  to 
take  a  glass  at  every  tavern  and  store.  My  only  fellow-pas- 
senger was  a  youth  just  let  loose  from  a  store  in  Baltimore. 
He  smoked  all  the  time,  drank  whenever  the  driver  did,  was 
constantly  spitting  all  over  the  stage,  and  singing,  "  It  will 
never  do  to  gib  it  up  so,  Mr.  Brown," — the  first  time  I  ever 
heard  that  delightful  effusion  of  Ethiopian  wit  and  melody. 
.1  look  upon  our  safe  arrival  at  Port  Tobacco,  considering  the 
condition  of  the  roads  and  of  the  driver,  as  little  less  than"a 
miracle.  We  passed  through  the  city  of  Troy,  containing 
only  one  house.  On  reaching  Port  Tobacco  I  found  a  miser- 
able looking  collection  of  houses,  dark  and  dingy,  little  supe- 
rior to  a  Hottentot  kraal.  The  hotel  was,  however,  rather 
pretty  and  tasteful,  having  a  piazza  running  along  in  front, 
and  a  little  yard  before  it.  Here  I  was  obliged  to  remain,  as 
owing  to  the  state  of  the  roads,  the  stage  could  go  no  farther, 
and  the  driver  carried  the  mail  on  horseback.  My  prospects 
were  any  thing  but  inviting.  I  was  assured  by  mine  host,  to 
whom  I  had  a  letter  of  introduction,  that  as  soon  as  Mr.  M., 
the  gentleman  to  whose  care  I  had  been  consigned,  heard  of 
my  arrival,  he  would  certainly  send  his  own  carriage  for  me. 
On  the  faith  of  these  promises,  I  lived  a  week,  and  here  re- 
ceived my  first  impressions  of  slavery  and  Southern  life.  At 
night  and  morning  a  fire  was  lighted  in  my  chamber,  by  a 
slave  deputed  to  wait  upon  me,  who  stood  patiently  while  I 
performed  the  duties  of  my  toilet  without  any  of  her  assist- 
ance. Although  quite  cold,  the  dress  of  the  females  seemed 
to  consist  only  of  one  thickness,  and  their  tall,  lank  forms 
looked  meagre  enough  in  such  a  garb.  Mr.  S.,  the  keeper 
of  the  hotel,  was  a  fat,  rosy-faced,  good-natured  man,  whose 
bar  being  well-stocked  with  liquor  for  the  benefit  of  custom- 


186    LEAVES  FROM  THE  NOTE  BOOK  OF  A  GOVERNESS. 

ers,  occasionally  offered  its  tribute  to  his  taste.  Mrs.  S.  was 
a  bright  little  woman  with  black  eyes  and  hair,  and  two  little 
girls  completed  the  family — with  the  exception  of  a  sort  of 
housekeeper,  a  white  woman,  also  fat  and  good-natured,  who 
answered  to  the  name  of  "  Miss  Lilah."  One  day  I  had  the 
curiosity  to  ask  what  her  name  really  was.  She  replied  that 
it  was  that  of  Samson's  wife.  I  was  somewhat  amused  at 
her  version  of  the  matter,  and  her  deep  acquaintance  with 
biblical  literature.  Our  table  was  loaded  with  delicacies 
which  would  have  tempted  an  anchorite,  or  even  a  Graham- 
ite.  For  breakfast  we  had  buckwheat  cakes,  warm  bread, 
cold  turkey  and  cold  ham,  hominy  and  coffee.  At  dinner, 
roast  turkey,  boiled  ham,  roast  mutton,  corned  beef,  and  ev- 
ery variety  of  condiments,  together  with  the  sequel  of  deli- 
cious puddings,  &c.  Here  then,  enjoying  the  hospitality  of 
Mrs.  S.  and  "Miss  Lilah,"  I  leave  my  reader,  trusting  he  or 
she  will  manifest  a  patience  equal  to  my  own,  under  the  same 
circumstances.  I  ought  to  mention,  perhaps,  that,  as  a  slight 
snow  fell  while  I  was  there,  we  took  a  sleigh-ride  to  view  the 
city — drove  between  two  rows  of  low  and  dingy-looking 
buildings,  turned  a  corner,  proceeded  a  few  rods  farther  to  a 
large  tree,  around  which  we  wheeled,  and  having  passed  be- 
tween two  more  rows  of  houses,  describing  in  all  our  circum- 
navigation, very  nearly  the  form  of  a  triangle,  we  were  safely 
landed  in  front  of  our  residence,  having  surveyed  the  length 
and  breadth  of  the  city  and  had  a  fair  specimen  of  a  South- 
ern sleigh-ride. 

Having  waited  a  week  at  Port  Tobacco,  and  fearing  that 
I  should  find  no  other  conveyance,  as  I  had  learned  that  the 
roads  were  impassable  for  a  carriage,  I  hired  a  wagon  to  take 
me  twelve  miles,  to  Newport,  where  I  was  told  I  should  be 
able  to  procure  a  better  conveyance.  The  wagon  was  merely 
a  box  on  wheels,  without  springs.  My  trunk  and  box  of 
books  were  placed  in  it  for  seats ;  I  occupied  the  trunk  and 
the  driver  the  box.  We  had  proceeded  about  half  a  mile, 
during  which  I  found  the  travelling  very  rough  and  cold, 
when  we  saw  coming  toward  us  a  handsome  "barouche,  with 


LEAVES  FROM  THE  NOTE  BOOK  OF  A  GOVERNESS.    187 

two  white  horses  and  a  black  driver.  My  driver  immediately 
said  he  presumed  that  was  the  carriage  which  passed  through 
Newport  the  day  before,  on  its  way  to  Port  T.  When  we 
met,  the  coachman  stopped  and  inquired  if  there  was  a  lady 
at  Port  T.  who  was  going  to  the  house  of  Mr.  M.  I  was 
glad  to  be  able  to  inform  him  that  I  was  the  individual,  upon 
which  he  turned  the  carriage,  and  I  prepared  to  exchange 
vehicles.  Meanwhile  the  driver  opened  the  door,  and  forth 
stepped  a  gentleman  who  said,  "  Allow  me  to  introduce  my- 
self; my  name  is  M."  I  had  received  too  good  an  impres- 
sion respecting  .that  name,  to  be  otherwise  than  gratified  at 
seeing  another  member  of  the  family.  A  son  of  Mr.  M., 
whom  I  shall  call  Arthur,  who  was  about  completing  his  law 
studies  in  New-England,  had  procured  me  the  srtuation,  writ- 
ten letters  of  introduction  to  all  his  friends  on  the  route,  who 
could  be  of  service,  and  requested  his  father  to  meet  me,  and 
after  allowing  me  to  rest  from  my  journey  in  his  own  family, 
see  me  safely  conducted  to  my  place  of  destination.  The 
gentleman  I  now  met,  seemed  quite  young.  It,  was  a  very 
cold  morning,  and  he  had  been  riding  with  the  wind  in  his 
face,  so  that  he  was  thoroughly  chilled,  and  I  regretted  my 
departure  from  Port  T.,  since  it  deprived  him  of  an  opportu- 
nity to  rest  and  warm  himself,  before  starting  anew  on  a  jour- 
ney of  twenty-seven  miles.  The  cold  rendered  us  both  rather 
silent  and  little  disposed  to  be  communicative.  I  however, 
learned  from  him  that  Mr.  M.,  his  uncle,  had  received  my 
letter  only  the  day  before  the  carriage  was  sent.  I  had  felt 
a  little  distrust,  after  waiting  so  long,  of  which  I  had  leisure 
to  repent,  while  riding  at  my  ease  in  the  luxurious  barouche, 
very  different  indeed  from  the  stage  in  which  I  had  traveled 
the  first  thirty  miles  of  my  journey  from  Washington.  The 
road,  though  a  county  road,  resembled  a  path  through  pas- 
tures ;  each  plantation  being  not  fenced,  but  separated  from 
the  next  one  by  a  gate,  so  that  every  few  minutes  the  driver 
was  obliged  to  descend  to  open  a  gate,  leaving  the  reins  in 
the  hand  of  Mr.  M.  We  reached  the  house  of  Mr.  Richard 
M.,  about  dark.  This  mansion  was  situated  on  an  eminence, 


188 


LEAVES  FROM  THE  NOTE  BOOK  OF  A  GOVERNESS. 


and  had  a  piazza  running  around  the  first  and  second  stories, 
a  neat  yard  surrounded  by  a  white  fence,  with  a  circular 
gravelled  carriage  road  before  the  house.  We  found  Mr.  M. 
himself  on  the  piazza,  ready  to  welcome  us.  He  received 
me  with  much  cordiality,  escorted  me  into  the  house,  and  we 
entered  a  Targe  sitting-room,  lighted  up  and  cheered  by  a 
bright  wood  fire,  where  I  was  introduced  to  Mrs.  M.,  two 
daughters,  and  two  cousins  of  the  family,  the  Misses  Eleanora 
and  Martha  Gordon.  Mr.  M.  is  a  fine-looking  man,  and  ap- 
pears little  older  than  Arthur.  His  daughters  are  intelligent 
and  pretty  young  ladies,  and  have  been  highly  educated  at  a 
Catholic  seminary.  With  the  Misses  Gordon  I  was  also  much 
pleased.  Eleanora,  the  youngest,  is  to  be  married  to  Arthur, 
when  he  has  finished  his  studies.  She  is  a  very  sweet  and 
amiable  girl — a  rigid  Catholic,  although  her  sister  is  an  Epis- 
copalian ;  both,  however,  seem  equally  conscientious,  and  are, 
I  should  judge,  truly  pious.  After  tea  we  went  into  the  par- 
lor, which  was  a  large  room,  very  elegantly  furnished  with 
Brussels  carpet,  rose-wood  German  piano,  a  very  elegant  sofa, 
two  tabourets,  and  other  ornaments  wrought  by  the  Misses 
M.,  and  a  marble  pier-table,  on  which  lay  several  beautifully 
bound  books,  French  and  English.  The  houses  here  are  dif- 
ferently constructed  from  ours,  being  intended  principally  for 
warm  weather.  The  rooms  are  larger,  but  destitute  in  most 
cases,  of  paint  or  paper.  At  night  and  in  the  morning  the 
servants  make  fires  in  all  the  sleeping-rooms.  Mr.  M.  has 
three  farms,  containing  seven  or  eight  hundred  acres,  and 
owns  sixty  slaves.  One  of  these  farms,  formerly  the  resi- 
dence of  Mrs.  Gordon,  in  whose  family  I  am  governess,  is 
worth  about  ten  thousand,  and  was  bought  for  Arthur.  With 
his  beautiful  bride  and  pleasant  home  in  prospect,  I  do  not 
wonder  at  his  impatience  to  complete  his  studies.  I  re- 
mainded  at  Locust  Hill,  the  name  of  Mr.  M.'s  residence, 
one  day  only,  as  I  was  impatient  to  reach  my  journey's  end. 
We  therefore  started  on  Friday  morning  in  the  barouche,  ac- 
companied by  the  Misses  Gordon,  Mr.  M.  driving.  The  dis- 
tance from  his  house  to  this  is  twelve  miles.  About  a  quarter 


LEAVES  FROM  THE  NOTE  BOOK  OF  A  GOVERNESS.    189 

of  a  mile  from  this,  we  enter  a  gate  and  pass  through  some 
pine  woods,  until  we  emerge  in  front  of  the  house.  Mrs. 
Gordon,  whose  husband  was  a  cousin  of  the  young  ladies  ac- 
companying us  to  visit  her,  is  a  very  lovely  and  youthful 
widow.  Her  family  consists  of  three  daughters,  several  ser- 
vants, and  a  housekeeper.  There  are  also  temporarily  resi- 
dent with  her  four  children  of  a  brother  and  sister  recently 
deceased,  the  eldest  of  whom  is  at  present  absent  on  a  visit. 
My  school  consists  only  of  the  children  in  this  family.  We 
occupy  a  little  room  in  a  building  in  the  yard,  formerly  used 
as  an  office.  Miss  Lee  has  a  little  black  slave  called  Geor- 
giana,  who  amuses  me  more  than  any  thing  else.  -She  sleeps 
in  our  room  every  night,  on  some  spreads  which  she  brings 
in  at  night  and  carries  out  in  the  morning,  Her  business  is 
to  take  care  of  our  fire,  wait  upon  us,  dress  little  Henrietta, 
&c.  I  promised  last  evening  to  string  some  beads  for  her 
this  noon,  so  I  suppose  I  must  leave  off  writing  and  go  in. 

EVENING.  I  am  sitting  in  my  room  before  a  bright  fire, 
with  Georgiana  on  the  floor  beside  me.  A  Mr.  B.,  an  old 
bachelor,  who  calls  here  two  or  three  times  a  week,  stays  all 
day  and  sometimes  all  night,  is  below.  He  is  a  very  nice 
old  bachelor,  and  seems  very  fond  of  the  family.  As  he  has 
been  in  the  habit  of  visiting  them  frequently  for  many  years, 
it  is  impossible  to  tell  whether  he  has  any  particular  attrac- 
tion at  present.  We,  however,  rally  Mrs.  G.  on  the  subject ; 
but  he  has  known  her  from  her  infancy,  and  perhaps  only 
feels  a  paternal  interest  in  her  welfare." 

In  my  next,  I  shall  introduce  my  reader  to  a  still  more  in- 
timate acquaintance  with  the  pleasant  scenes  and  warm  hearts 
of  Woodvale. 


190  THE  FAIRY'S  BURIAL. 


THE  FAIRY'S  BURIAL. 

Where  shall  our  sister  rest  ? 

Where  shall  we  bury  her? 
To  the  grave's  silent  breast 

Soon  must  we  hurry  her  ! 
Gone  is  the  beauty  now 

From  her  cold  bosom  ! 
Down  drops  her  livid  brow, 

Like  a  wan  blossom  ! 

Not  to  those  white  lips  cling 

Smiles  or  caresses  ! 
Dull  is  the  rainbow  wing, 

Dim  the  bright  tresses  ! 
Death  now  hath  claimed  his  spoil, — 

Fling  the  pall  over  her! 
Lap  we  earth's  lightest  soil, 

Wherewith  to  cover  her  ! 

Where,  down  in  yonder  vale, 

Lilies  are  growing, 
Mourners  the  pure  and  pale 

Sweet  tears  bestowing  ! 
Morning  and  evening  dews 

Will  they  shed  o'er  her; 
Each  night  their  task  renews, 

How  to  deplore  her! 

Here  let  the  fern  grass  grow, 

With  its  green  drooping! 
Let  the  narcissus  blow, 

O'er  the  wave  stooping ! 
Let  the  brook  wander  by, 

Mournfully  singing  ! 
Let  the  wind  murmur  nigh, 

Sad  echoes  bringing ! 

And,  when  the  moonbeams  shower, 

Tender  and  holy, 
Light  on  the  haunted  hour 

Which  is  ours  solely, 
Then  will  we  seek  the  spot 

Where  thou  art  sleeping, 
Holding  thee  unforgot, 

With  our  long  weeping  ! 


EDITOR'S  TABLE.  191 


EDITOR'S   TABLE. 

SCANDAL — SEWIMG-CIRCLE,  &c.  We  do  not  wish  to  be  understood  as 
endorsing  all  the  sentiments  of  our  correspondent  who  writes  upon  these 
subjects,  in  the  present  number.  On  the  contrary,  we  would  enter  our 
protest  against  the  severity  of  its  insinuations  in  relation  to  the  "  peculiar 
institution,"  so  well  known  among  us  as  "sewing-circles."  We  know  it 
has  been  quite  fashionable  of  late  to  decry  these  societies.  We  have  heard 
old  bachelors  morosely  terra  them  "scandal  circles,"  and  "  gossip  meet- 
ings;" and  now  and  then,  we  have  heard  of  even  a  married  man,  who  has 
advised  his  wife  not  to  attend  them,  because  other  people's  affairs  were 
rather  too  freely  discussed.  We  do  not  deny  but  these  evils  may  exist, 
though  we  must  confess  they  never  obtruded  themselves  upon  our  notice, 
among  the  numerous  ones  we  have  attended,  in  various  places.  From  our 
own  experience  in  them,  we  have  been  led  to  think  them  quite  as  harmless 
as  the  club-rooms  and  caucuses  frequented  by  many  of  the  lords  of  crea- 
tion; and  we  seriously  question  whether  as  much  malicious,  gratuitous 
slander  is  propagated  at  these  gatherings  of  the  ladies,  as  will  be  beard  in 
any  political  meeting  preceding  a  Presidential  election,  or  as  may  be  read 
in  half  a  column  of  any  political  newspaper,  in  reference  to  the  public  or 
private  life  of  any  candidate  for  political  office. 

Still,  it  is  a  poor  way  to  excuse  our  own  faults  by  showing  the  excess  of 
other  people's,  and  it  is  certainly  high  time  to  correct  our  sins  when  they 
are  reproved  by  Satan.  But  we  are  very  unwilling  to  admit  these  accusa- 
tions ;  we  repeat,  our  own  experience  has  made  us  unbelievers.  'We  some- 
times hear  it  hinted  by  gentlemen,  who  even  frequent  these  meetings,  that 
the  tongues  go  faster  than  the  needles — that  more  characters  have  been  de- 
stroyed, than  garments  made,  and  we  fear  that  all  these  invidious  remarks 
must  have  some  foundation,  though  we  would  fain  hope  there  is  much  ex- 
aggeration about  them.  As  an  offset  to  tfyese  surmises,  we  would  state 
some  things  which  we  know  to  be  facts. 

We  once  belonged  to  one  of  these  societies,  in  the  town  of  Lynn,  which 
was  organized  expressly  for  the  purpose  of  erecting  a  parsonage.  The  la- 
dies hired  the  money,  purchased  a  pleasant  lot  of  land,  and  commenced 
the  building  immediately,  which  was  finished  in  a  few  months.  The  inter- 
est was  regularly  discharged,  and  in  two  or  three  years,  the  church  was  in 
possession  of  a  neat  dwelling,  with  considerable  furniture,  which  had  been 
paid  for  entirely  by  the  avails  of  the  work  performed  in  the  society.  It  is 
still  in  active  operation,  and  we  believe  the  funds  are  now  appropriated  to 
the  relief  of  the  poor  and  suffering.  The  success  of  this  "circle,"  gave 
rise  to  several  other  organizations  of  the  same  character,  in  the  place,  which 
we  presume  have  been  equally  efficient. 

Our  name  was  recorded  on  the  book  of  another  of  these  societies,  in  a 
neighboring  town.  The  members  were  few,  and  far  from  wealthy,  yet  we 
well  remember  the  delight  with  which  the  treasurer  went  her  quarterly 


192  EDITOR'S  TABLE. 

rounds,  with  a  part  of  the  funds,  which  was  appropriated  to  four  poor,  aged 
females,  who  were  regular  pensioners  upon  its  charity.  We  do  not  recol- 
lect the  exact  sum  thus  bestowed,  but  it  was  large  enough  to  light  up  their 
care-worn  faces  with  grateful  smiles,  and  relieved  their  hearts  of  many  a 
gnawing  anxiety,  in  the  last  years  of  life. 

We  had  also  the  pleasure  of  becoming  a  member  of  one  of  these  circle?, 
in  the  cii.y  of  Lowell,  during  the  past  winter.  We  do  not  recollect  a  sin- 
gle meeting  at  which  less  than  a  hundred  persons  were  present.  The  num- 
ber sometimes  far  exceeded  this  ;  but  we  never  remember  hearing  a  single 
fashion  discussed  ;  we  are  sure  that  no  disparaging  remarks  were  ever 
made  of  any  one's  dress  or  appearance;  we  doubt  if  an  engagement  was 
even  guessed  at,  and  we  are  certain  that  as  far  as  the  range  of  our  6wn  au- 
ricular organs  extended,  the  characters  of  the  members  and  inhabitants 
were  left  in  undisturbed  repose.  The  conversation,  always  unrestrained, 
was  frequently  in  the  highest  degree  entertaining  and  instructive. 

Another  of  these  benevolent  gatherings  with  which  we  have  been  con- 
nected, was  organized  by  a  few  ladies  of  position  and  influence,  in  a  beau- 
tiful village  near  Boston.  Though  small,  and  composed  chiefly  of  persons 
who  would  call  themselves  in  humble  life,  its  monthly  meetings  are  fre- 
quently honored  by  some  of  the  finest  minds  with  which  we  are  acquainted. 
We  have  listened  delightfully  to  conversation  from  lips  upon  which  Boston 
audiences  have  hung  entranced,  and  carried  home  sentiments  which  we 
trust  will  never  be  forgotten.  Such  influences  could  not  be  without  their 
effect  upon  those  earnest  and  inquiring  minds.  We  cannot  give  the  debt 
and  credit  accounts  of  this  society,  though  we  are  sure  that  were  we  able 
to  do,  they  would  be  highly  creditable  to  the  members. 

But  of  another,  now  existing  on  the  shores  of  Cape  Cod,  we  can  speak 
more  accurately.  We  are  strongly  tempted  to  give  proper  names,  but  we 
would  not  shock  the  delicacy  of  its  benevolent  and  noble-hearted  members, 
by  dragging  them  into  a  notoriety  which  they  never  coveted.  The  list  of 
membership  never  exceeded  twenty  ;  the  average  attendance  is  about  ten; 
and  yet  this  spirited  ten  have  had  from  seventy-five  to  a  hundred  dollars  at 
their  disposal,  as  the  result  of  one  year's  industry.  The  gentlemen  who 
sit  in  the  neat  little  church,  carpeted  and  curtained,  and  beautified  by  their 
exertions,  are  very  quiet  about  "  sewing-circles"  in  general. 

The  people  who  find  the  most  fault  with  these  gatherings,  are  the  very 
ones  who  should  frequent  and  try  to  improve  them.  If  pleasant  and  profit- 
able subjects  are  skilfully  introduced,  scandal  will  "  hide  its  diminished 
head."  After  all,  the  individual  who  is  annoyed  with  gossip,  is  mostly  an- 
swerable for  it  himself.  It  is  very  easy  to  be  a  poor  listener  upon  any  sub- 
ject which  is  uninteresting,  without  any  rudeness,  and  at  the  first  doubtful 
pause  a  new  topic  may  be  adroitly  started,  and  pursued  to  the  exclusion  of 
all  questionable  ones. 

Perhaps  our  remarks  may  strike  our  readers  as  somewhat  one-sided.  In 
some  future  number  we  may  take  the  negative  of  the  question  ;  but  we 
must  have  facts,  "stubborn  facts,"  not  mere  hints  and  suspicions,  and  sur- 
misings,  to  ground  an  argument  upon. 


AflSU  8230 


us  SB  UBRAW 


